


The path I tread will always lead back to you

by A_fighter_like_Eowyn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Best Friends, Boys In Love, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Declarations Of Love, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Father-Daughter Relationship, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Is In Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Takes Care of Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion are Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parents, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Heartbreak, Heartbreaking, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Takes Care of Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Friendship, Mutual Pining, Pain, Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Realization, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, Separations, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, True Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_fighter_like_Eowyn/pseuds/A_fighter_like_Eowyn
Summary: An abandoned, disheveled, disconsolate Jaskier is taken in by a mysterious old woman. What if, in an attempt to protect him from Nilfgaardian enemies, she decides to change his appearance and modify his memories?Meanwhile, Geralt realizes, a bit too late, how desolate his life has become without his bard by his side. Can he find Jaskier again? And even if he can, will Jaskier forgive him?
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119
Collections: The Witcher, The Witcher(Geralt/Jaskier)





	1. I am lost without you, and your memories haunt me

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfiction EVER. I am deliberately keeping this short because I have grander plans for the next couple of them. I have not yet had the good luck of reading the Witcher Saga and the other books, so this is based on the TV series and on characters I learned about while reading other fanfictions based on this series.
> 
> Do review and send me any constructive criticism for my writing. Happy reading !

"If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands..."

It was as if the rugged, arid mountains all around him were reflecting the words back at him again and again, the echoes scalding him, burning his eyes, throbbing like a blinding ache in his head, sending rivers of seething, molten fire through his veins. Jaskier closed his eyes as if offering a silent prayer, his arms coming up of their own volition to hug his own trembling body. "I will not sob... I will NOT!", he thought, while realizing his lower lip had already started to wobble. It was futile, he knew -- if he did not cry now, he would succumb to sobs at night before falling into a fitful sleep, and wake up mere hours later feeling utterly empty. That was what the routine had looked like for the last few days.

Jaskier shook his head slightly, like a puppy trying to rid its fur of raindrops. The echoes abated for a while, but he knew they would be back. He wondered briefly if those words had somehow been branded into his mind with smouldering iron, never to disappear, never to be erased in blissful forgetfulness. His stomach growled, and his head felt a little light. He had not had anything to eat since he had parted ways with ... since he had left that fateful mountain, except for wild berries and leaves that he had managed to identify as not poisonous. His palms bore fresh cuts from thorns and brambles he had had to wade through to get to said berries. Had he bothered to fold up the now-somewhat-fraying hems of his weather-worn trousers, he would have seen that both his knees were slightly swollen and bearing ugly purple bruises -- the result of stumbling and falling several times down treacherous slopes or painfully bumping against jagged pieces of rocky outcrop on either side of the uncertain terrain he had been trudging along.

He had failed to summon the necessary strength to head back to their camp up on the mountain to gather his bedroll, saddle-bag and lute, and some small supply of food and a water-skin on his way down. On his way down, he had been ... his mind had gone numb. Numb, quiet, dark. The light of his carefree laughter had been extinguished. "Jaskier the Bard, for once struck speechless by this travesty that's life!!", he had mused ruefully one time. Perhaps it was for the better ... after all, Gera-- ... after all, he did get on people's nerves with his incessant, senseless chatter. May be this shock would prove strong enough to rob him of his voice? So he would have to stop singing? What would he sing about anyway? What was the point... what would it matter if he...

Jaskier jerked himself awake, before his feet slipped in their unsteady walk. These past nights, he had been unable to sleep more than a couple of hours. The mountains, while mostly sparsely wooded, were still rife with wolves and foxes and things that scurried and slithered and stalked in the dark, their eyes aglow with a fiendish green light. Jaskier had sat each night clutching the short dagger he was carrying, concealed in its sheath, in one of his boots, underneath his trousers. The dagger had been a gift from his ... the Witcher ... and it shone with an eerie blue light in the dark. Jaskier knew full well it would be useless in his shaking hands should an actual assault be carried out on him by a pack of wild animals or monsters, yet he had resolutely stayed awake for most of the night, each night, dagger ready and eyes frantically scouring the darkness around him for any assailant.

After all, there was no white-haired, broad-chested, amber-eyed, noble, valiant, caring, loving, if a little grouchy and reticent Witcher watching his back, protecting him from every monster real and imagined. Not anymore. No more stirring from a troubled sleep to see the campfire burning low, its ruddy flames silhouetting a hulking, brooding cloaked figure sitting cross-legged and peering into the night, ever watchful of impending perils in the dark. No more being nuzzled by Roach's wet muzzle while being unable to sleep. No more lying side by side with his best friend and staring up at the clear, velvety night-sky, studded with stars like pinpricks, pointing to each other the constellations they recognized, talking softly, stealing soft glances at each other, small smiles playing on their lips. Sometimes, their fingers would touch. Initially, Geralt would immediately jerk his hand away from Jaskier's as if burned, and Jaskier would see, with heart beating a tiny bit faster, how Geralt would fidget a bit, licking his lips or looking away with a small frown on his face. But as time went by, the hands brushing against each other, accidentally or a little less so, did not get drawn away by the owners. Rather, they would rest like that on the ground, pinkies touching, sometimes may be even softly caressing each other. 

Sometimes, Jaskier would surreptitiously turn his head to the side, watching Geralt's face -- the long lashes of his open and upturned eyes, the contour of his proud nose, his firm lips, the widow's peak fanning out to silvery-white strands that then framed that beloved face like a cascade. The most luxurious, most beautiful, most gorgeous hair that Jaskier had ever seen. Geralt would sense Jaskier's stare -- sometimes, his lips would quirk up in an endearing smile and he would keep facing up towards the heavens, letting Jaskier admire him from underneath slightly hooded eyes. Sometimes, he would turn his face and let his gaze fall on Jaskier. Golden irises would hold captive turquoise-blue ones for just a moment until Jaskier's eyes involuntarily dipped down, as if surrendering to Geralt's eyes, giving in to the soft yet unmistakable, unbridled love that shone in them.

Sometimes, Geralt came back especially exhausted and covered in dirt, filth and scars (those always made Jaskier's heart lurch in panic) to the inn where Jaskier had already rented a room, made sure the inn-keeper had a hot meal going for when his friend came back, and most likely could be found playing and singing to patrons in the inn's dining area. Geralt usually proved to be ravenous after those especially taxing monster-slaying jobs, so he would sit down and devour his meal and gulp down his ale without further ado. Jaskier would retire earlier than usual on such nights, following a tired, occasionally limping Geralt back to their room. "Geralt, you need a bath!", he would whine, as his Witcher stripped off the bloodied armour. Geralt would reward him with a vexed grunt, sometimes with a rumbling "Jaskier!" as Jaskier tugged at his sweaty, wrinkled, rank-smelling shirt to get it off. But eventually Geralt would always yield. With many a resigned "Jaskier" and "Damn it, bard!" and annoyed growls, he would finally be standing in his small-clothes, while Jaskier ran a bath, checking the temperature in the tub as he busily emptied the buckets of steaming hot water into it. 

And through the corned of his eye, Jaskier would notice Geralt watching him. The man would stand there -- a wolf whose frame resembled more of a tiger lounging casually against the door-frame of the bathroom, the silvery head tilted a little to the side, lips almost, but not quite, ready to break into a fond smile, eyes trained on his svelte bard. Jaskier would feel a tingling at the pit of his stomach, and smile shyly to himself, unable to look up and meet Geralt's eyes. As the bath came up to the right temperature (Jaskier was quick to learn what "right" meant for Geralt), he would turn to Geralt and say, "Alright, come on you.". Sometimes -- not always, but sometimes -- Geralt would extend his hand towards Jaskier, and Jaskier would take it with a soft smile as Geralt put a bit of his weight on him while climbing into the tub. 

Settled in nicely, Geralt would look up at Jaskier and say, "Well, since it was your brilliant idea to get me all bathed and cleaned up, bard, you better wash my hair." Jaskier's face would immediately split into an eager, beaming smile as he brought out the scant soap and pumice stone (occasionally, a hard-earned vial of bathing oil or a citrus-smelling gentle soapy lotion to rub on the hair). Parting Geralt's flowing white (but dirty) strands of hair with more tenderness than he cared to admit, Jaskier would gently but thoroughly rub soap on them, massaging the roots as Geralt leaned back and rested his head on his bard's hands, completely trusting him, eyes closed in a rare moment of bliss and a smile tugging at his lips. Jaskier's trimmed nails would scrape Geralt's scalp, sending near-euphoric tendrils of sensation from his crown down his tired back. Then Jaskier would let his nimble fingertips lightly but in quick succession press on Geralt's broad forehead, on either side of his eyes, down the bridge of his nose, and the headache threatening to rise behind Geralt's fatigued eyes would recede slowly but surely. Jaskier would make Geralt sit up straight as his palms kneaded the taut-from-exertion muscles on Geralt's back, rubbing and pressing and knuckling on the spine, massaging the lower back. Calm and a sense of tired but welcome torpor would envelop Geralt, and he would sag a bit against his raised knees, smiling lazily and humming deep within his throat. 

After the bath water had turned soapy and cooled down considerably, Jaskier would haul up a rather clean and sweet-smelling Geralt out of the tub (well, he knew he was just offering Geralt his hands, but the man was not really trusting him with his weight), and lovingly wrap a downy towel around his dripping torso. Geralt would sometimes place a palm on Jaskier's cheek, or tilt his chin up with the soft touch of a knuckle, and look at him with a strange light in his eyes. In those moments, Jaskier usually felt he was melting, that his knees would give way any moment. At the same time, a tiny voice at the back of his mind always managed to say, "If your knees give out, he won't let you fall.". 

And he had believed that voice.

*******************************************************************************

Jahnvi was very old. Nobody in the village knew how old. Even the aged and infirm seniors of the village could not quite remember when she had appeared and begun living among them. Well, not quite among them. Jahnvi lived in a small earthen hut on the outskirts of the village, much closer to the foothills of the mountains, surrounded by a copse of somewhat stunted trees. By profession, she was known as a healer of surpassing skills. She had saved many a terminally ill patient from the nearby villages and even from within the city's walls. She was bent a bit with age, and usually tottered around with a stout stick in her hand, but it was well-known that she was still quite able and fit, sometimes even daring to venture up the mountains in search of rare herbs for her medicines and decoctions. 

It was a warm afternoon. It had rained all day -- unusual for these parts of the continent -- and the weather was sultry and stifling. But it bothered Jahnvi little. She sat on a raised log outside her little cabin, pounding ferociously at a mixture of strange herbs in a wooden mortar and humming tonelessly. 

Suddenly, she looked up from her task, eyes alert. Yes, there it was again -- a faint rustling sound. The trees still hid from sight whoever it was who was approaching, but she could immediately tell from the shuffling sound that if it was a human, he or she was either sick or drunk, or both. Silently setting down the mortar and pestle on the ground in front of her, she stood up, her stick in hand, ready to be used as a cudgel.

A young man stepped out from between the trees. He was clad in what looked like a coat, shirt and trousers that were once red-and-gold and quite ornate, but now looked threadbare and caked in dirt and mud. Dirt and grit clung to his tousled, unkempt hair as well, and his hands seemed to be full of ugly-looking scratches and deep cuts. There was also a gash down the side of his face, and "Oh sweet Melitele!", exclaimed Jahnvi, as her eyes properly descried the face. Pallid, haggard and drawn, the lower part of the face was bloody from the single streak of blood that had trickled down a nostril. The lips looked swollen but bloodless. Days' worth of stubble covered the cheeks and chin. And the bloodshot eyes were glassy and unseeing as the man wobbled forward. 

It could be a wraith, or some spirit taking on the form of a human in distress. But it was not so easy to fool Jahnvi. She knew this was indeed a human -- a frail and ailing and desperately tired one. Dropping her stick, she rushed forward to help.

Too late. The man took two more steps in her direction, then fell face forward on the ground with a dull and sickening thud.

************************************************************************************

Roach nickered impatiently at Geralt as the Witcher tried to saddle the animal. She was pleased to see him, but he could tell that she was also a bit restless. As if she was looking for someone else. Someone who would sneak her apples and extra oats while Geralt was not looking, or braid her mane more delicately than Geralt's calloused fingers could manage.

Someone else who had gone up the mountains with him but had not come back down.

Geralt tried to breathe past the almost unendurable weight that had settled inside his chest like a giant boulder of guilt, grief, loss, pain and self-loathing. It was as if someone had their vice-like claws clasped around his windpipe, making his throat constrict and breathing difficult to the point of being laborious and painful. Unconsciously, his right hand came up to clutch at his chest feebly, where his heart was. Letting go of Roach's reins, his body buckled forward in a sudden bout of agony as he tried to gulp in air. 

Unbidden, a name fell from his lips in an anguished, harrowing whisper, "Jaskier! Jask!".

Panting, Geralt forced himself to straighten. If there were any tears threatening to spill forth, they were furiously blinked back. Witchers didn't cry. Witchers killed, for coin. Witchers drifted like apparitions around the continent, bringing fear and mistrust with them like looming shadows. Witchers had no emotions. Witchers could feel no sorrow. 

Witchers could not love. And hence, they could not miss anyone. 

Certainly, the Butcher of Blaviken could not miss someone as if the centre of his heart had been ripped off, leaving a Jaskier-shaped void that sent physical agony the equivalent of white-hot iron and a slicing, wicked scimitar through his whole being.

Witchers could never be happy. Did not know what happiness meant or felt like. Did not need happiness. They were as monstrous as the monsters they slew. 

Witchers did not deserve happiness. Or love. And so when either of these two came close to a Witcher, what did he do? Sabotage them, of course.

Geralt of Rivia clenched his jaw, jutted out his chin in abject denial, then continued saddling Roach, every movement stiff and deliberate. If his hands shook a bit as he fastened Filavandrel's lute next to a certain bard's abandoned saddle-bag, it was because he was tired. If his lips trembled a little like autumn leaves as his fingers slid down the lute's body in a gentle caress, it was just the sudden cold gust of wind, nothing more. If he had to fight his body's urge to run up the mountain crying "Come back, come back to me" in order to mount his mare, it was just his stupid mind playing tricks on him. 

As he kneed his reluctant Roach forward into a slow canter, even the White Wolf's enhanced senses were too clouded by -- well, he was sure it was not grief and pain and longing -- to notice the short but stout, white-haired man observing his every move from behind a small hill, a strange light sparkling in his old, wise eyes.

Borch Three Jackdaws' wrinkled old face broke into a small smile as he watched the Witcher climb down the hillside atop his mare, looking like a lost puppy. "I have one more "first" to experience, it seems, Sir Geralt", he uttered in a whisper, "That of reuniting a dear, stubborn, headstrong, emotionally stunted Witcher with his sunshine and lifeline."


	2. He is no one important to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Jaskier survive the ordeals of his journey, and his heartbreak? How will Jahnvi and Borch help? Meanwhile, Geralt undertakes a perilous journey back to Kaer Morhen with his Child Surprise.

Jahnvi huffed and puffed a bit as she dragged Jaskier's unconscious, limp body into the hut, trying to minimize any further scraping and abrasion from the sharp pebbles littering the earth. The hut was cozy, if small, with the smaller bedroom furnished with a cot covered in clean linens. Divesting the man of his layered pieces of clothing would have proved painstaking had she had to do so manually, but time was of the essence, so laying him down on the earthen floor, she briskly stepped outside to grab her stick lying by the door. Closing the door behind, she hurried back to Jaskier. Muttering something, she moved the stick in a complicated pattern above the ground, finishing with two sharp knocks as she rapped with its tip against the floor.

Immediately, the end of the stick glowed a very faint, phosphorescent blue, and Jaskier's clothes were whisked off his slim frame, leaving his bruised and battered body open to her inspection. Quickly, and with strength that was hard to believe could have been harboured by her thin, veined arms, she hoisted him on to the low cot, covering him just enough to protect his modesty. 

Pressing down on his ribs, his knees and shins, Jahnvi soon realized that while no bone was broken, there were deep bruises and lacerations marking him all over, too many swellings that were turning purple, and some cuts that looked infected. Doubtless these came from ugly long thorns of mountain cacti bushes and from hits his body had taken as he had foundered and fallen several times. What worried her was how high a fever he ran, and summoning her magic once more, she cast about trying to gauge its chief cause until she realized the venom coursing through his blood. And a lethal dose of it. The man had likely been bitten by a mountain viper in the dark the night before, and he probably had not even realized it at the time. 

"Way too much cruelty fate has chosen to inflict upon you, child", she sighed, while hovering above Jaskier's spread-eagled form, making sure she had not missed anything. She was a witch, and well aware of the fragile nature of human bodies that sometimes could not be mended even with the aid of magic.

Not to mention that on top of it all, she could sense an all-encompassing, overwhelming miasma of heartbreak, of devastation and desolation that remained upon and heavily draped around the man like an invisible, but way too heavy and smothering, blanket. This she could not lift -- no magic could. It would run its course, and only after that would it leave the poor soul alone.

Nor did she have the time to ponder about afflictions of the heart, when the physical body of the human in front of her was in danger of succumbing to the venom and infections and withering away. The antidote to the venom was a complex concoction of some rare, precious medicinal herbs and saps extracted from the barks of certain highland shrubs. Thankfully, she had a fair supply of all of them. Rushing back to the big living room, Jahnvi started hastily picking jars and containers and decanters off shelves, all the while praying to whichever deity was listening that Jaskier still had enough time to fight off the venom in his system.

A soft knock sounded on the door, one that she would have totally missed, hunched over as she was and fully focused on the potion she was now brewing, had it not been for her sharpened hearing. Before she could respond, the door opened and in stepped a familiar face.

"Ville!", she exclaimed, careful to keep her voice low enough so as not to startle her patient although he was still unconscious, and her wrinkled face broke into an endearing smile, "The great Villentretenmerth! I knew you were around, but did not expect you to drop by -- to what do I owe this very unexpected pleasure, Ville?"

"Jahn", smiled Borch, and clasped the old witch on her shoulder, "It is good to see you too, old friend."

"Here, have a seat", offered Jahnvi, pushing a small seat of woven bamboos towards him, "Do forgive me for not sitting down myself. I have this sick boy in the next room, and I really must finish making this draught for him or else he won't make it. You can keep talking, Ville, while I work. I am listening.".

"It is about the sick boy that I am here", said Borch. 

"What?!", Jahnvi's head snapped up, "Since when do you meddle in the affairs of humans, Dragon?".

"Since now", shrugged Borch, "And I won't make it a habit, that I promise. But it is not just about this human, Jahn. It is also about a Witcher."

"A Witcher!!"

"Yes. Geralt of Rivia."

************************************************************************

Geralt and Ciri sure made an odd pair. If someone had seen them standing in the midst of the dark forest, surrounded by the massive boles of towering, humongous trees and the thigh-high underbrush, in the eerie, greenish light of dawn suffusing the woods, they might have thought of them as wood-elves from some distant fairy-tale -- their white hairs glimmering softly, the strong arms of the taller man encircling the slight frame of the young girl, chin resting atop her head. 

They stood there like that for a while, silently reveling in each other's comforting presence, offering up wordless gratitude to destiny that they indeed had found each other, after what had seemed an endless barrage of trials and tribulations.

"At least I got this one thing right", thought Geralt, unable to help the twinge in his heart.

He had pushed everyone away. Some had abandoned him of their own volition, upset, hurt and perhaps even disgusted by who he was and the choices he had made. Some he had ripped from his side and cast away. But destiny had made sure Ciri found him.

And he won't let her go. Ever. 

Ciri let go of their long embrace and looked up at his face. "I had a dream about you last night. It was what prompted me to come out into these woods to look for you", she explained, "And how I recognized you.".

Geralt held up Ciri's face in his large, calloused palms for a moment, as if committing every single line and arch and detail of her face to memory. Then he let go, and drawing her close with an arm around her shoulder, he started walking back towards Yurga's cottage.

"In that dream...", Ciri began, but hesitated. 

"Go on."

"Um, you were standing in the midst of a ring of fire. And crying."

Geralt stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to his Child Surprise.

"You were repeating a name over and over again, tearfully."

"What name was that?", whispered Geralt.

"Jaskier."

******************************************************************** 

The first sensation that Jaskier's foggy brain comprehended was the sunlight, almost blindingly bright, streaming upon his face. He wanted to shield his eyes with his hand, but found he could not even feel his body, much less move any limb the slightest bit. His mind floated in and out of darkness - a blessed void where no consciousness could intrude. All his senses seemed to have been numbed. Especially his hearing. It was as if he was doused underwater, and any sound he heard was muffled and distant.

As his mind swam, his brain involuntarily tried to grapple with what had happened before he had, quite obviously, passed out. He knew this was not the same as awakening from a deep slumber, not even some drunken stupor that was sure to induce a dreadful hangover (he had had enough experiences of those mornings to mistake this for one such). 

Of course, he could not have known that it was not morning but late afternoon, and it was the last bright rays of the setting sun that illuminated his pasty face and clammy forehead. The effect of the anti-venom potion had started kicking in, much to Jahnvi and Borch's relief, but it would still be many long hours, perhaps even days, before Jaskier completely escaped the clutches of pain and sickness and festering wounds, and regained full consciousness.

Muffled voices came from somewhere close by, giving Jaskier's sluggish yet frantic and somewhat fearful mind something to focus on. He strained his ears as much as he could, and listened to snippets of the conversation. The disembodied voices were soft and vaguely pleasant, and he registered that there were two people talking, but he could not tell whether they were men or women or one a man and the other a woman.

"... not very kind of him.".

"No, it wasn't.".

"Why do ... care, then? Why ... reunite them?".

"Because it seems ... tied to one another.".

A soft scoff. "I'm sure ... better off without ...".

"No, no. You didn't see ... needs him. Like a man ... desert."

Something unpleasant twisted in Jaskier's stomach, and immediately he heaved. Bile rose up his throat, and he violently jerked to his side, dry retching. No vomit came out -- he had had nothing to eat for a while, after all -- but his body still racked with bouts of nausea and intense, excruciating pain in his lower abdomen, and he continued to retch. 

In mere moments, he felt gentle but firms hands on his back and supporting his front, slowly righting him and making him lie back on the bed. "Easy, easy, my lad", a soft voice murmured. Another, deeper voice said, "Is it the venom?". "Yes, it's being forced out of his system. I need to make him drink lots of water. Wait here, Borch. See he does not fall off the bed."

Footsteps receded. Jaskier was breathing hard, and he could now feel his lungs, and his breaths were rattling and painful. He tried to focus on calming his breathing, but his stomach still sent shock-waves of searing pain through his body, and he involuntarily whimpered. Immediately, soft fingers brushed away his damp hair and started caressing his forehead. It didn't help with the cramps, but it tingled something at the back of his feverish mind.

_Someone used to comfort him like this when he was sick. Someone with strong arms. Calloused palms. Pads of thumbs rubbing circles on Jaskier's forehead, his temple as he lay tossing and turning in a fevered swoon. Someone's warm breath fluttering against his face, tips of sweeping white hair tickling his neck. A heavy but reassuring hand rubbing the sweat-soaked shirt on Jaskier's chest in an attempt to ease the pain in his cough-racked lungs. Someone anchoring him securely to their body as he feebly twitched from his fever. A deep, soothing voice saying over and over again..._

_"It's alright, Jask. It's alright. Breathe. I'm here. It's going to be alright._ "

And with that last thought stirring some far-off and now unreachable memory, Jaskier's mind dipped back into pitch-black darkness.

***********************************************************************************

_The woods stood silent and foreboding. Crickets chirped away relentlessly. A fell wind howled through the landscape, sometimes accentuated by the distant but blood-curdling baying of wolves._

_A man sat dozing on the roots of a stunted tree. A dagger shone faintly in the moonlight, clutched close to his heart. A fire once made and stoked with inexperienced hands now lay smoking in embers._

_Geralt stared at the man. Why did he seem familiar? What was his name? What was his name... what was his name... why couldn't Geralt remember?_

_Why was Geralt rooted to the spot where he stood? Why were his legs frozen? Why couldn't he move closer to this sleeping figure?_

_Why did he even_ want _to move closer?_

_What was that? Geralt's enhanced hearing picked up a soft rustle in the dry leaves close to the man's feet. Peering through the gloom, his amber eyes tried to see -- and sure enough, there was the diamond-shaped head of a rearing snake! A deadly grey-black viper of high altitudes, its venom easily able to put to sleep an adult elephant._

_The viper was too close to the sleeping man. It had sensed a threat, and stood coiled taut like a spring and ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Too close, too close! Wake up! Wake up you fool!_

_Geralt tried to scream, to warn the man, but he had no voice! Nothing came out. He strained against his invisible restraints, to get closer to the man, to hurl the snake away from him, but his arms and legs were locked in position, completely immovable._

_Wake up now! Wake up! Please wake up! You will get hurt...you will die..._

_... And I'll follow..._

_The man twitched in his restless sleep, and the snake struck._

_JASKIER!_

Geralt shot up in his bed, panting like a hunted animal. He realized a moment too late that an inadvertent wail had torn itself from his throat, and he now felt a small, delicate palm pressed on his chest that rose and fell like his lungs were going to burst out of his body. 

"Geralt! Geralt! Dad, breathe! Please, Dad", a voice nearly sobbed next to him.

Another palm now started rubbing circles on his back.

Geralt closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he couldn't help the small sniffle that escaped from him. He pulled Ciri close, burying his face in her hair and focusing on breathing -- in and out, in and out, in and out. Ciri held on to him like he were her lifeline, still trying to comfort him and coax him out of the nightmare with her small palms and her tight embrace.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn over the windows. The inn was a very remote one, with very few visitors, and the innkeeper relied more on his farming and crops than on the inn's income to earn his livelihood. Geralt hoped that the very few visitors the inn received, his own skillful disguise of himself and Ciri (especially the dyeing of their all-too-noticeable hairs) and even Roach, and his enhanced Witcher senses would be enough to protect them from prying eyes.

Kaer Morhen was still many, many leagues away. The terrain the two companions and their horses covered was fraught with perils of all kinds. They might chance upon a Nilfgaardian patrol. Or a pack of rabid monsters. Or simply wild animals prowling the wilderness-shrouded countryside. They might get assaulted by a band of robbers or even ragged refugees looking desperately for food. Even the nerves of a Witcher as tough and formidable and stoic as the White Wolf were close to being frayed from all the sleepless, watchful nights and the long, onerous, grueling journey by day. 

He tried to pick out inns that were too far-flung and out of the way to be noticed and raided by Nilfgaardian soldiers (his chiefest of foes at the moment). This was both for the sake of having at least the security of four walls and a roof around them and his attempt to give Ciri at least some semblance of comfort in her toils. At least she could sleep on a real bed on such nights, instead of a makeshift hay pallet or sometimes even the cold, hard ground with nary but Geralt's blanket between the stones and her soft body. At least she could eat a decent stew and warm bread instead of the spit-roasted meat of rabbits or wild hogs that Geralt hunted down during their journey. At least she could go to bed full-bellied and satisfied, and sleep more soundly.

Ciri. His Ciri. His daughter. 

His whole world might be crumbling, but his daughter still needed to eat. His heart might be falling apart in shards and shattered pieces, but his daughter still needed to sleep, to rest. His whole body might be screaming to him in pain, but his daughter needed to live.

Said daughter was now staring up at him, palms still pressed on his chest and back to anchor him to reality, her little face puckered in a frown.

"What was it, Geralt? What did you dream of?".

Geralt stayed with his head bowed for a while, silent and unmoving. "Nothing, Ciri", he breathed at last, his voice still a bit shaky, "It was nothing, love. I'm alright, I'm safe. You're safe. Go back to sleep."

Ciri didn't move. Geralt had half-expected she wouldn't. She was a remarkably perceptive child.

"You kept tossing and turning, like you were in pain. You were crying. Again."

A sigh. "Ciri, love, please go back to sleep. I am sorry I woke you. Tomorrow, we have to leave early. I'll run my fingers through your hair while you sleep. Come on."

"Dad, you're hurting.".

"Ciri...".

"Who's Jaskier, Dad?".

"CIRILLA!"

The child recoiled, Geralt's yell still reverberating in the small room. Geralt felt like someone had reached in and twisted his heart. He had yelled at his child. His lovely, brilliant, brave child. He had scared her. Seen the fear and hurt reflected in her eyes.

Such a monster...

"You always do this, Dad. Always. Every time I ask about him.", her soft lips wobbled, but the determined look did not leave her young face.

Geralt closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"He is no one important, Ciri. No one who matters to you. Or to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! Please keep your comments and encouragement coming :-) Also, as a beginner of fanfiction-writing, I am not entirely sure if this chapter is too short or not. I had initially felt I would add more content, but then ended up saving them for the 3rd chapter. If you have inputs on this, please let me know.
> 
> Honest confession: I am listening to "I wanna grow old with you" while writing this chapter, and boy is it making me way too sappy ha ha :-)


	3. A mask to hide the aching soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier recovers under Jahnvi's ministrations, but he still needs to be protected, and for that, the witch needs to cast some interesting spells. Do read and let me know what you think of the plan to protect Jaskier. Meanwhile, Geralt and Ciri face deadly enemies on their way to Kaer Morhen. And Geralt runs into an old acquaintance of his. What will happen?
> 
> Btw, I just realized that perhaps I should add disclaimers: other than the OC Jahnvi, I own no other character in this fanfic :-) And also, I was overjoyed to discover, belatedly, the comments left on my work -- THANK YOU SO MUCH!! I plan to answer those once I finish with this fic. Which, I am hoping, is soon ;-)

Three days.

Three very, very long days.

That's what it took for the tug-of-war between death's groping claws and Jahnvi's healing skills to finally come to an end, and the old witch breathed a sigh of relief (and of exhaustion, if she was being completely honest to herself). These three precious days had been spent near-constantly by the very sick, very weak Jaskier's bedside, ready to hold a bowl up to his mouth as he repeatedly threw up the contents of every single meal (mostly comprising fluids) that she tried to make him ingest. His system refused to keep even a single morsel of food down. All he could take was water that she dribbled into his mouth and on his parched, chapped lips. The fever gradually went down with the administration of several doses of the venom antidote, and the infected cuts and swollen bruises started mending as she carefully rubbed salves and ointments upon them, but the pallor remained, and she worried if somehow his body had stopped making new blood cells. He drifted in and out of consciousness, but even when he did open his eyes, they seemed to shine out of dark sockets, and all that came out of his mouth were, as far as she could tell, incoherent, delirious mumbling.

Well, almost incoherent. Of the mostly unintelligible gibberish, some words could be made out when listened to carefully. 

Words and phrases like "Geralt" and "Please, can I stay" and "I'm so sorry".

One time, it seemed to Jahnvi that her patient was humming to himself, with many pauses, some melancholy, far-off melody that tugged at the strings of the old witch's heart. Something that sounded like:

"How far your ship has sailed, Beloved --  
The tall mast dwindles to a speck,  
I sit alone on the shore, eyes strained ahead  
To the farthest horizon, as upon my body the waves break.

The gulls high above cry in a shrill voice,  
Sending a shiver down my spine --  
I would be by your side, had you given me the choice,  
But you sent me away -- you could never be mine.

I cried, I begged -- it melted not thine heart,  
You sailed away in haste,  
I'll find solace in the sea's cool embrace  
And in its watery depths my rest."

Many a time in the deep of the night, Jahnvi would be woken from the light doze she had nodded off to by the soft sound of Jaskier crying. He made little noise, not more than an occasional gasp or a bit of a strangled sob (that made Jahnvi shush to him and run her hands over his chest and through his hair), but his face would be contorted in an expression of gut-wrenching agony of the heart, and tears would stream down his cheeks. 

On the fourth day, when dawn was breaking outside, the eastern horizon could be seen turning rosy like a blushing bride through the window by Jaskier's bed, he opened his eyes.

Unclouded vision. Fully conscious mind. For the first time since Jahnvi had found him.

His throat felt like it had been stuffed with sawdust, and he was sure his lips were cracked. He knew he would not last a second longer without drinking water, and as if reading his thoughts, the old witch brought a chalice full of water up to his mouth, holding the back of his head to help him drink.

Ah! Sweet, cool, precious water! It felt like ambrosia, coursing down his throat, wetting his lips. Jaskier drank his fill, then slowly laid his head back down on the pillow.

"Can you talk?", asked the old, kind-looking woman standing, slightly stooped, by his bedside. 

Jaskier swallowed, then after a few seconds nodded. "Yes." His voice was scratchy and raspy, but he managed. 

"Good", she said approvingly, then continued, "Now, you have had a very rough few days, child. Don't over-exert yourself. You must still rest, and recuperate. I have to keep giving you medicines to have you heal completely."

"Thank you", he rasped, "Where am I? May I know my lady's name?"

Jahnvi barked out a laugh. "No need to stand on ceremony here, boy. I am a witch. What? Don't flinch. Didn't I just nurse you back to health? I mean you no harm. You may call me Jahnvi."

Jaskier hadn't meant to flinch. He was not afraid of witches. Well, except for one. And it was that name that had abruptly popped up in his mind and made him wince. 

Yennefer.

To be honest, it was not just the stab of fear he felt. Sure, the violet-eyed, black-haired witch intimidated the living daylights out of him. But she had also, in some way, taken away the life he had known on the Path for many long years before her appearance. Had leached away, little by little, the love for him that had bloomed in the heart of his Wi...

"No! No, I mustn't let my mind wander there. Stop. Stop thinking. Damn it!", thought Jaskier, willing his mind to not go any further down that road, his face set as he struggled.

"It's okay to be upset, Jaskier", said Jahnvi, as if reading his expression with utter ease, "It's okay to mourn a loss. It's how the heart comes to terms with life's ugly surprises."

"I fear I shall lose my mind, my sanity -- I shall lose myself -- if I keep thinking of it", he said haltingly. Then suddenly, his eyes snapped up to hers in silent bewilderment.

"Borch came by", explained the witch, correctly interpreting his wondering stare, "He told me everything."

That entire day, Jaskier stayed in bed, though he did sit up to look out the window. There were trees outside, and the sky a lovely shade of blue, with billowing white clouds like crowns atop the crests of the mountains. Birds sang on trees, bees buzzed. A cool breeze blew. It was early spring, and the flora and fauna were merry.

It helped a bit with the heartache. He hummed under his breath, watching Jahnvi totter around the cottage, bringing fresh supplies of medicines for him to drink (he made a face at the taste and she laughed), carrying trays laden with simple, hearty, rustic fare (Jaskier thought he had never tasted any bread that good, and any meat-and-vegetable stew that delectable and filling), putting fresh towels for him to use, arranging his pillows and blankets to make him more comfortable. 

Jaskier felt bad for the old woman. But when he offered to help, he was scolded right back into reclining on the bed.

In the evening, Jahnvi brought some soft linen trousers and shirts for him. Seeing his astonished face, she explained that they were from the village, where she was well-loved and the people were ready to help when she needed them to, and that she had done the necessary altering to make sure they fit him snugly.

"Thank you", he whispered, clasping her bony, vein-crisscrossed hands in his own. She patted him lovingly on his cheek.

"Tomorrow, we will see if you are up for a walk outside. The sun will do you good, boy. But you must promise to sleep early tonight." With that, she blew out the candle and closed the bedroom door behind her to retire to her own room. 

***************************************************************

It had been a very narrow escape.

Geralt had barely had time to settle a tired Ciri, with a scraped and bleeding knee from a fall earlier in the day, in a small, dingy room of the almost-dilapidated-looking inn and come downstairs to order some dinner before he glimpsed, through the corner of his eye, the glint of black and gold in the doorway of the dining hall.

Nilgardiaans.

Pulling up the hood of his cloak and turning away as unobtrusively as possible, he climbed back up the stairs, then rushed to the room and shook a dozing Ciri awake.

"We have to get out of here. Now!"

"What?"

"Nilfgaardians."

And that had Ciri scrambling off the bed and gathering their belongings up in record time.

She was so grateful that of all people, it was one of the Continent's most accomplished Witchers that destiny had chosen to bind her to. A better warden for a wanted princess one could not have wished for. Every time they had stumbled upon an inn in the midst of barren, wilderness-ridden countryside, Geralt had first made sure the inn had an at-least-partially-concealed backdoor to sneak out through in case of any emergency. And he always made sure to find some sort of sheltered ground a bit far off from the inn to tether Roach, and Ciri's mare Tara, to some tree, instead of using the inn's stable, setting up protective magical wards around them.

It paid off now, as they climbed downstairs -- Ciri first, and Geralt a few minutes later, to give the impression of being unacquainted with each other -- then, seemingly to go to the corridor that had all the rooms in the ground floor of the inn, they turned and disappeared behind the staircase, still keeping distance with each other.

The backdoor was not locked from the outside, thankfully. Stepping out into the cool night air, they swiftly made their way towards the small glade nearby where Roach and Tara stood waiting.

But apparently not fast enough.

Ciri's heart jumped to her throat as she heard a subdued cry of anguish from behind her, and skidding to a halt, she turned to see Geralt stumbling a bit before catching himself.

A crossbow bolt bloomed, quivering, from his left shoulder. It had succeeded in piercing through his armour, though perhaps not penetrate too deep into his body. A scant couple of inches further to the right and...

Ciri screamed. "Dad!"

"Go, go, keep going!", Geralt urged, gritting his teeth through the pain and clutching his side, "No, don't wait for me, Ciri. Run!"

Ciri could see the two mares already. They seemed agitated, perhaps by the scent of blood in the air and their senses warning them of imminent danger.

"Lean on me, Dad. Please."

"There's no time, Ciri! Go!"

Another arrow whistled past, this time taking a few wisps of hair off Ciri's head, right next to her ear. 

She thanked the long shadows cast by the trees around them for what little cover they provided in the gathering gloom of the evening. 

"Run, Ciri! Go, daughter, go!"

She was pushed forward by a pair of too-strong arms in a desperate attempt to rush her.

She needed no more urging. Scampering forward, she unfastened Roach and Tara from the tree and hoisted herself on to Tara, holding Roach's reins close.

Geralt was still a few paces away. 

And he was slowing down.

He lurched forward in unsteady steps, head bowed seemingly in excruciating pain.

There was a whistling sound, and before Ciri knew it, another crossbow bolt streaked past, narrowly missing Geralt's midriff. 

Roach whinnied, then lunged forward in a mad rush.

Before Geralt's feet could give way, Roach was by his side to support him, and somehow, without careening and falling, he managed to step on to the stirrup and mount the mare.

Needing no hint from her master, Roach turned and took off at an all-out gallop, with Tara in tow. 

They cleared the forested area in no time and came upon an old paved road -- falling in ruins in places but clearly a route that had been of importance once.

It was familiar territory for Roach. They were not very far from Kaer Morhen anymore.

Geralt sat hunched on his saddle, head bowed, right hand clutching left arm in a white-knuckled grip. Ciri could not see how much blood he was losing -- it was very dark now -- but from the faint shimmer of the Witcher's hair, she could see the side of his face glistening with perspiration, warped in pain.

"Dad? Dad, please be okay. Are you okay?"

They were sprinting down the old road now, and she had to hold on to Tara with both hands, and could not reach out to comfort her father.

"I'm okay, Ciri, my love", Geralt managed to wheeze out after a moment, eyes still squeezed shut, "Just keep going.".

"May be we should seek a nearby village. Seek the help of the village healer..."

"NO!", a growl, then more softly, "No, my girl. There's no time."

A few minutes of silence followed. Then she tried again.

"Well, can you summon some of your magic to heal the wound? At least staunch the bleeding?"

Geralt looked up, a light shining in his eyes. He rested the palm of his injured arm on Roach's head.

"Slow down a bit, girl."

As Roach slowed to a brisk trot, Geralt muttered something in the Elder Speech under his breath, and his palm glowed a faint sheen of blue. Touching both Roach's and Tara's rumps with the light in his palm, he spoke more words in Elder. Then he let go and opened his eyes.

"I put a spell on them both. It will boost them with additional strength and endurance. I am hoping that this will be enough."

"For what?"

"Carrying us all the way to Kaer Morhen before the break of dawn."

"But your wound, Dad? It's bleeding quite a lot, I can see now."

And indeed it was. Much more profusely, now that Geralt had expended the last reserves of energy in his mutant body in giving themselves a head-start over their pursuers.

"I'm alright, Ciri."

He spurred Roach forward, whispering, "Go girl. Run like the wind. All the way to Kaer Morhen. Ere the sun rises."

And she did. Sparks flew as her hooves collided with the stone paving the road, Tara racing next to her. The landscape was a jumbled blur as they rushed past forests and open, sprawling fields with hills and mountains looming like masses of darkness in the distance. Ciri's eyes watered from the cold wind that whipped into her face with sheer, almost painful force.

Next to her, Geralt slumped in his saddle. 

Ciri knew he was spent. 

Night after night staying up, keeping watch over her prone, sleeping form. Her head on his lap, his long fingers parting her hair as he hummed to soothe her nervousness. Day after day, riding through dangerous, rough, unforgiving terrain, making sure to hunt to keep her fed, his alert eyes scanning the horizon for the barest sign of approaching enemies. Sometimes letting her ride Roach, pressed to his broad chest, her lithe form held secure by a strong arm around her, head resting underneath his chin, fast asleep as he rode like the wind. Teaching her about the constellations, the stars, the sun and the moon when she could not sleep. Washing, disinfecting, bandaging her scrapes and bruises. And when, sometimes, memories of dead grandparents and a lost, burned down, decimated home had her sobbing uncontrollably, hugging her close to his very warm body and murmuring, "You're okay. The pain will be gone one day, I promise. I promise, Ciri. I love you, my child. My sweet, sweet child."

Little did Ciri know -- how she and her love were chipping away methodically at Geralt's stoical, taciturn, almost steely veneer, at what his earlier self would have deemed an invincible rampart that the years had helped erect around his heart, exposing the vulnerability, the sea of compassion, the ocean of love concealed inside.

Little did Ciri know that this was the first time, in a very, very, very long time, ever since a witch named Visenna had abandoned her little boy to destiny's whims, that Geralt of Rivia said out loud to someone, "I love you..."

All Ciri knew was that, if the Witchers in Kaer Morhen could not help Geralt recover from his injury, she would lose her family.

Again.

And she was not sure she would survive it this time.

********************************************************************

A sound night's sleep, thanks to the soothing chamomile-with-cherry-extract tea that Jahnvi had left by his bedside, followed by a thorough bath with ample soap and scented oils, and already Jaskier felt like the fatigue and langour that had clung to him were falling away from every cell of his body like discarded old skin. Not to mention that he no longer felt grimy and greasy, and Jahnvi had meticulously trimmed his nails and cleaned the dirt underneath them, then helped him shave the week-long stubble that had been bothering him (he did prefer to be clean-shaven and as immaculate as possible, after all). 

A bite of oven-fresh warm bread, home-made raspberry jam and a wedge of cheese, washed down with a mug of sweet-smelling, lemony, herbal tea, and Jaskier determined that he had enough energy to perhaps even try a short jog (a suggestion to which the witch glared in such a way that he immediately shut his mouth and acquiesced to an unhurried walk that did not stray far from the hut).

A few minutes later found an odd pair ambling around the village -- the well-known old witch, and a young man with brilliant blue eyes and a sweet face that seemed like it had once been radiant with joy, and still would prove to be quite ready to break into a lovely, charming smile, but tinged with a hint of sadness. The pair mostly walked down the cobbled streets, keeping away from others, and sometimes paused to admire the window of a shop or two.

"It's safer here, or safe enough", said Jahnvi, "At least for the moment. Nilfgaard hasn't sent its bloodthirsty, marauding forces to this corner of the continent. But it won't remain unsullied by their bigoted, hateful leader forever."

"Will you be safe?", asked Jaskier, and the witch realized with a warm feeling that there was true concern in his young voice, "What about the villagers? Can they be evacuated and taken to somewhere safe?"

"War and carnage have torn apart families, ravaged villages and towns countless times in the past, my boy. And I have a feeling that wars will last for as long as mankind does", she sighed. "As for the people in this village, I am sure that many will be slain, and many will succumb to injuries later, or starve to death. War rarely comes alone. More often than not, it leaves famines and plagues in its wake."

"But something tells me that you will stay, and help them, is that not right, Jahnvi?"

"I will. I love these people. Simple, honest folk they are. And you, child, are much more perceptive than I initially imagined."

Jaskier smiled shyly at her indulgent tone, but said nothing.

"But at this moment, it is not them I am worried about."

A pause.

"It's you."

"Why?!"

"Borch and I had a long discussion that evening. We think that the Nilfgaardians may target you."

"What?!!"

"Don't you see? You know Geralt, and Geralt is, as I am very sure Cahir is well aware, the only true, living guardian of the Lion Cub of Cintra. Don't you see how you can be used as a leverage?"

Jaskier swallowed thickly. He had been trying his best not to bring to the surface of his mind a certain name. Well, he should have known better. The White Wolf of Rivia was too important a figure in this whole damn continent to not sneak his way into at least one conversation. Who knows how many reminders Jaskier was going to get of the man while he traipsed through the continent in the near future? He might as well get used to it, and practice not falling apart every time that name reached his ears.

"I am pretty sure I cannot be used as a leverage. Geralt would never come to rescue me", he said, a grimace pulling at his lips. 

Jahnvi stopped. "Are you sure?"

"Are you kidding? The last I saw him, the brute asked me to fuck off, Jahnvi."

The kind old woman put a hand on the young man's shoulder in a reassuring squeeze, worry clear in her eyes.

"Don't worry, Grandma Witch, I am so much better off being taken care of by you. Much better than having to clean and oil a stupid Witcher's stupid bloodstained armour. Not to mention the absolutely revolting cheese and stale bread all those favourite inns of his served", he attempted to joke feebly, pushing past the lump in his throat with considerable difficulty.

"I have a feeling that you would much prefer mouldy cheese and burnt, stinking bread over any other luxury in this world if it meant having your Witcher by your side, boy", she scoffed good-naturedly. 

One part of Jaskier's mind screamed in pain, while the other held on to this idle banter for dear life.

"No I wouldn't. Not now that I have found those absolutely out-of-the-world fragrant bath oils in your bathing room. Can you imagine not being able to bathe for days on end, and all that dust on the roads? Whew! No way... this is _the_ life I want. I get to lounge around on your chaise, eat your absolutely scrumptious home-cooked meals, go for walks in the glades..."

"Like my very own house-cat."

"Exactly. That. Well, except the baths. Cats hate baths."

"I ought to charge you for all that, lad. Considering that you don't have a penny on your person..."

"What! What about all the grand ballads I am going to compose praising The Magnanimous Witch of Caingorn?"

"Ha ha... I ought to smack your head..."

"Besides, I have all this disarming charm, you see..."

And for a moment, Jaskier the Bard breathed free. Just a bit. There was a very brief, but still very welcomed, lull in the incessant waves of intense, heart-rending pain that buffeted his soul, body and mind. And in that lull, he allowed himself a moment of respite. 

*****************************************************************************************************

Geralt slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on his side. Soft sunlight dappled his face, made his eyelids flutter. 

The first thing he noticed was the window -- an oblong shaped, medium-sized, rough-hewn hole in the stone wall --- and the patch of clear blue sky visible through it. It seemed quite high up, somehow, with the intermittent cry of circling hawks sounding close instead of distant. 

A glimpse of something shining caught his eyes, and he glanced to his bedside.

A girl's face lay sleeping close to his own, her hair fanning out around her and catching the rays of the sun. Freckles marked the delicate face, which was now clean of all the smudges and stains of travel. The girl had been sitting on a chair next to his bed, but now the upper part of her body was reclining on the bed beside his pillow.

"Ciri...", he breathed, then raising his hand slowly, ran his fingers very lightly on her head, careful to not wake her up.

"It's alright, she won't wake up", a voice said from the other side, and Geralt turned immediately on his back to stare at its source.

"She is exhausted anyway, and I also added some valerian to her milk. She refuses to leave your side, and she needs her rest", said the tall, willowy witch in front of him, her black hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her deep violet eyes looking at him with a tenderness he had not seen before.

It was ... different. She seemed different. _Sounded_ different.

"Yennefer..."

"Geralt."

"How did you ... I assume we are in Kaer Morhen?"

"Indeed. It took some convincing to make Vesemir and the others let me come in. But they know I am your friend."

"Are you?"

"Don't be daft, Geralt. Of course I am."

"I took your freedom away. I thought you hated me for that."

"I did. I was angry and hurting. But do you know that friends can be upset with each other and yet not break off their relationship, Geralt?", she said testily.

He said nothing. What could he say?

"You will always be my friend, Geralt. Unless you do something unforgivable. Which, to be honest, I don't think you have in you to do.". After a pause, she added, "I hurt you too. I put a spell on you and made you rough up my enemies in Rinde. I never apologized for that. How about we call it square, hmm?"

Geralt searched the vivid violet depths of Yennefer's eyes for something. Then, quietly, he nodded.

"It was a close call, Geralt. The dart was poisoned, with some toxin that spread fast, despite your way slower mutant heartbeat. Took me and Vesemir and Eskel two days to wrest you free from death's clutches."

"Yen...", Geralt's baritone was much softer than she remembered, "I ... thank you. And ... forgive me." 

Yennefer sat on the edge of the bed, and fidgeted. She was never one to hesitate, but then, she was also so good at hiding behind a mask. A few moments later, she took his hand in hers and squeezed.

"I thought long and hard about it, you know. You and I ... we are ... friends, Geralt. For life. I feel it in my bones. I will always care for you. And what you said, up in the mountains..."

"Hmm?"

"That ... that I am important to you? I know you meant it, and you still mean it. Somehow, something tells me we will always be there for each other. But not ... as lovers. It's strange ... this feeling -- it does not make me sad. Because we will always have each other in our lives. Always have each other's back. We will each hold a piece of the other's heart that won't be taken away by anyone else. But again, as I said, not as lovers."

Geralt waited, a lump in his throat and an uncomfortable burning in his eyes. 

"In time, we shall be best friends. I ... know it. I just do. And I shall come to care for Cirilla. Well, more than I already care for her. We will be a family. A patchwork one, but a family nonetheless."

Geralt swallowed. A family ... could he really be so fortunate? Or was it life's cruel schemes, tempting him to take the bait? Could he really belong? A monster such as himself?

"And Geralt?"

"Yes, Yen?"

"Your true love is out there. Somewhere.", she said, her pensive expression suddenly quirking into a mischievous smile, "But I think you already know that."

***********************************************************************************

Some distance off the village, there rose a solitary, rounded hillock of packed earth, overlooking a lovely valley. It was on top of this that Jaskier sat with his new friend, their feet stretched out in front of them, grabbing tall mugs of cool, sweet lemonade that Jahnvi had purchased from a vendor on the street. 

"So, what plan did you two come up with? You and Borch?"

The witch took a sip from her cup, waiting a moment before answering.

"It's not something that I would force upon you, at all. We will do this only if you agree to it."

"I know."

"You have traveled to too many places across the continent. Too often. Too many people know your face. And know your association with Geralt. You are that bard that made him famous, made him welcome in many towns and cities and villages where previously he would have been despised and mistrusted. You are that bard that composed "Toss a coin to your Witcher", and made both yourself and your Witcher not just renowned, but loved and lauded across the continent."

"Huh! No ordinary feat, that", scoffed Jaskier, his heart giving an ugly twinge of pain at the mention of that upbeat score.

"Yes indeed, Jaskier. Which means that, as long as you wear this pretty face, you will be in constant danger of being recognized, and being taken captive by the prowling Nilgaardian rascals."

"Oh!"

Silence followed. Jaskier took a swig of lemonade, trying to calm himself.

"Whereas a temporary glamour cast upon you might succeed in fooling the eyes of common soldiers and mercenaries for a while, it will be easily detected and destroyed by any mage of even mediocre abilities hired by Fringilla in whatever quest Nilfgaard is currently rampaging around on. Any lighter touches of magic on you to alter your appearance, your voice, perhaps even some of your memories can and will be undone the moment they sense the spells on you."

"What do you suggest, then?"

Jahnvi took a deep breath.

"Listen very carefully, child. There are other, deeper, older kinds of magic that do not simply conjure a glamour to conceal your features. They actually work underneath your skin and bones, in your blood and nerves, veins and arteries, to bring about a much bigger, far less easily detectable change. The deepest recess of your subconscious will be imbued with this magic -- buried so deep that unless a mage were specifically looking for it inside you, and unless he or she were an extremely skilled, extremely powerful wielder of magical powers, they would be able to feel nothing, nor extricate it from within you."

"And it will _permanently_ change what I look like?"

"That, or else, for as long as the trigger does not appear."

"The trigger?"

"Yes. The spell can be cast solely by itself, or along with a trigger. It can be anything : a specific person, a specific animal, an object, even a word or a phrase. It can even be a combination of various components. To give you an idea, suppose you choose your trigger to be, um, your mother. After the spell is cast, provided that you also did not choose to give up your memories, you will, most likely, travel back home to your parents, yes? The moment your eyes land on your mother, the spell will cease to act on you, and everyone around you will be able to see your true features. But until that time, except for you and the one who cast the spell on you, no one in the world can recognize you for who you are. They may suspect who you are, from your demeanour or some old habit of yours, but they will never see past the facade."

"I see."

"I am hoping you will like to add a trigger, yes?"

Jaskier remained silent and thoughtful. After several minutes, he spoke.

"I have more questions for you regarding the trigger. But first, there is something else", he took a deep breath, "Should I get caught despite everything, and should they suspect that I ever had anything to do with ... Geralt ... I don't want them to be able to retrieve any information from me that could potentially harm him. Or Princess Cirilla."

He paused, and realized that the old witch was staring at him intently.

"You impress and amaze me more than I can say, Jaskier. And that's saying something, my boy, given the very, very long time that I have spent amidst humans. I would have thought that I have seen all that there was to see. But I am happy that life still brings occasional surprises for me in my sunset years. Here I am, talking about protecting you from harm, and there you are, Jaskier, prioritizing on the safety of the very man who sent you away from his side."

Jaskier's eyes were downcast, and he bit down on his lower lip. "I ... if something happened to him ... I won't .... I can't...", he choked, unable to say more.

Something twisted inside Jahnvi's heart. "Oh my boy, Borch was so right. Oh Melitele, if I have ever done anything to earn your blessings, may this child find his mate. May they be reunited. May they have a happily ever after", she thought fervently to herself.

Out loud, she said, "That can be arranged Jaskier. Borch and I talked about that bit as well. Listen."

Jaskier raised his head, and if his eyes were shining a tiny bit with unshed tears, Jahnvi pretended not to notice.

"Here's what I propose. I shall work on a spell that will blur, to a huge extent, but not entirely erase, the memories of Geralt, and those of any incident or conversation, people or situation that involved Geralt in some way or another. For example, if you have in your mind a memory of you drinking at an inn, conversing with the bartender while Geralt sat by your side, that memory will now become very, very hazy. You will remember neither the name of the inn, nor the bartender's face and the conversation you had with him, nor indeed anything else that you might have specifically noticed inside the inn. You still with me?"

Jaskier wordlessly nodded.

"Good. This also means that you would actually remember nothing of this conversation, or me, or Borch. Indeed, you would remember nothing of coming to these mountains at all. And, ironically enough, the spell will also remove all memories of itself and the spell that will alter your appearance from your mind. In other words, you will not remember that there are these two spells upon you, both of which can be lifted with the proper trigger. And you will not remember anything of the trigger either."

"Unbelievable!"

"And I shall miss this witty sarcasm of yours, Jaskier. Sharp as a whip. You're welcome, boy!", the witch laughed, and Jaskier could not help but join in. 

Yes, all of this was laced with a strange kind of sadness, and wistful longing. Geralt, his dear Witcher -- he would lose all memories of him. Close enough to losing, anyway, given how Jahnvi described the blurring effects of the spell. But Jaskier was doing it for Geralt's and Cirilla's sake.

And ... he would never ever admit to himself ... but a small voice at the back of his mind softly said, "Perhaps this would alleviate the pain a bit. Just a little bit. Not being able to remember him means not being able to remember him leaving me. Right?"

As if on cue, the witch smiled indulgently and put a hand on Jaskier's head lovingly. "No magic can fully remove the pain of a heartbreak, nor the loss of a ... friend. Your heart will remember the emptiness, and it will ache, but yes, the pain will indeed be numbed to an extent."

"Thank you, Jahnvi", he said, his tone honest and sincere, "I don't know how to repay you."

"Consider that razor-sharp wit and your awfully charming personality payment enough, boy", said the witch, barking out a laugh.

"Question", said Jaskier, raising his hand like he once used to at Oxenfurt, and the memory made him smile, "What if I run into an old friend or acquaintance whom I knew from before I met Geralt? What if I walk up to them and start talking as if I am still the old Jaskier, and they are puzzled because they do not recognize my face?"

"Hmm", hummed the witch, "Good point, lad. Very well, I shall cast an even stronger spell, one that will sufficiently, but again not entirely, modify your memories of the years from before you met the White Wolf. If anyone from your family or your oldest friends and teachers ran into you, you won't be able to recognize them. All of your childhood, adolescence, young adult years will become blurred and morphed."

"In fact", she added as an afterthought, "Perhaps I ought to implant in your mind the false memory, or notion, that all your previous memories -- the true ones -- are so murky because of an accident you had, where you sustained an injury to your head."

"Charming, Grandma!"

"Now, would you like to talk about the trigger?", she wiggled her eyebrows, and Jaskier noted, with a little jolt in his stomach, the sparkle in her eyes.

"Something tells me you already gave a lot of thought to it, Grandma Witch."

"I did! How did you ever guess?", she chuckled, "And here's what I propose. Once the spells have been properly cast on you, first for your outer appearance and then for your memories, you will be immediately put to a deep sleep by the second spell, and at the same time, whisked away to some location of your choosing, through a magical portal. When you awake, it will be as if you have been born anew."

"Very well.". Jaskier waited.

"I am hoping that you will have the good sense to wait out these mad times, until the Nilfgaardians are either defeated, or Melitele forbid, have conquered the entire Continent, in some safe haven. I am going to try and imbue you with some magic that compels you to stay away from any obvious danger. After the wars and the upheavals have diminished, you can resume your travels. Borch wanted me to make sure that you remember yourself and your disguise dissolves once you run into, well, Geralt. He is fairly sure you and Geralt will cross each other's paths.".

Jaskier gulped. "I sense a "but" there...".

"Indeed. If you must know, my dear boy, I am very, very angry with a certain Witcher. He should not have treated my precious child that way."

"Jahnvi...", Jaskier breathed.

"I don't quite intend to make it that easy for him to find you, again. I intend to reach deep into your memories of him, and create a complex trigger. A _very_ complex one", she smirked.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?", he said, unable to help a flip in his stomach.

"Oh my, yes!", trilled Jahnvi, "I plan to not even tell _you_ what the trigger would involve."

"Incredible!"

"But don't you worry. It will test the Witcher well enough. Test how truly dedicated and loving his heart is towards his bard."

Jaskier closed his eyes. "Not sure what you mean, Jahnvi.".

"I think you do.". Then after a pause, she added, "I am going to provide you with some coins and a satchel of clothes and food to sustain you on the road. Where do you wish to wake up?"

He thought for a moment, with a distant look in his eyes. "Somewhere close to Oxenfurt? I studied there. I think I can find employment in one of the colleges there.", he sighed, "Teach. Read. Compose new songs.".

"And travel and see the world again, when this war comes to an end", said Jahnvi in an encouraging tone, "Oh yes, you will, my boy. Don't you sulk, Jaskier. Now, choose a name you wish to be called by." 

Jaskier pondered for a while. "How about _Frederick Alanger_? Don't you dare laugh", he added in a mock warning tone.

Jahnvi barked a laugh anyway. "How did you get that one?"

"My full name is Julian Alfred Pankratz. 'Frederick' and 'Al' from my middle name, 'an' from 'Julian', and 'ger' from, well, you can guess."

"Did I ever mention how brilliant you are?"

Jaskier giggled a bit, then said, "Last question. What if ... um ... you know, he cannot figure out the trigger? Cannot make it appear, whatever it may be?"

"Then, my sweet Jaskier, you will never again remember him or your old life.", the old witch said, looking him in the eyes, "But if I have learned anything of the ways of the universe, Jaskier, it is this : people linked by destiny will always find one another. And something tells me, my boy, that destiny would really like you to belong with a certain mulish, ornery, headstrong lummox of a Witcher."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested in knowing some of the songs I played while focusing on writing this chapter, well, they are not in English, but I am adding some links anyway, for my fellow authors and other readers. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0NfOGlAQ6jI -- the very title of the song, "Rab ne bana di jodi", literally translates to "The heavens have brought this pair of lovers together". Which, to me, seems so relatable when I think of "People linked by destiny will always find each other", though the latter has been said in a much broader sense. And in this case, at least in my imagination, Geralt and Jaskier will gravitate towards each other.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptOipj1mrL4 -- this song's title is "Piya tora kaisa abhiman" -- basically, it asks, "Beloved, why are you upset with me? Why are you so cruel and unforgiving? I beg you... the rains have come, and I have sent you a chariot to carry you back home, but my Beloved, you still did not come home to me." Heart-wrenching, is it not?
> 
> In at least one of the dialogues, if you read carefully, you will see a sentence I have borrowed from my one of my all-time favourite epic fantasies, The Lord of the Rings :-)
> 
> Okay, that's it. PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW!! Let me know if I could have improved on the writing, on the entire dialogue between Jaskier and Jahnvi discussing the spells to be cast upon him.


	4. Come home, your family awaits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da!! And it's a wrap!! I am so happy right now... hope you all enjoy reading this chapter, and in fact the whole fic. I tried my best to put myself in the position of each character and accordingly build up the conversations in this chapter.
> 
> Geralt has a long and heart-to-heart conversation with Yennefer. He sets out to find Jaskier. Can he find the bard again? Even if he does, will the bard really come back to his arm?

It was impressive how high up and nigh inaccessible the stronghold of Kaer Morhen was. The foundations took off right from the sheer, vertical walls of the mountain itself, the spires and the narrow bastions rose to almost impossible heights, the highest windows often rubbing shoulders with the drifting clouds. There were lean balconies cut into the walls, adjoining the austere, sparingly furnished rooms of resident Witchers.

Against the balustrade of one of these balconies stood leaning a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular figure, white hair flowing in the near-constant gusts of cold wind that howled around the mountains at such elevations, keen golden eyes fixed on the training courtyard the balcony overlooked. From afar, he could have been mistaken for some powerful yet benevolent and kind angel from ancient, mythical times, looking down from a great height. The courtyard -- a platform carved into the rock-bed of the mountain within the walls of Kaer Morhen -- was currently occupied by two sparring companions : one a large, agile man with near-unsurpassed sword skills, and another a perspiring young girl, her white hair trussed up in a messy pony-tail, face set in grim concentration as she tried to keep up with her opponent's pace and tried to parry his every blow with a blunted sword.

Light footsteps sounded behind the white-haired man, and he turned slightly to see the black-haired, violet-eyed woman almost glide into the room, her typically elaborate, brocaded gown trailing behind her.

"Lambert seems determined to teach Ciri everything about swordsmanship before lunch", she jested, eyes now fondly watching the two tussling figures beneath them, "Or _swordswomanship_ , to be accurate."

"She learns quickly", Geralt said softly, something akin to pride lighting up his eyes.

"Indeed she does. Her lessons in controlling her powers and in war-craft, strategy and diplomacy are coming along very nicely. Eskel and I are both very impressed."

"Thank you, Yen."

"You're welcome, my dear friend."

Geralt looked up at the witch, then smiled shyly. It had been two years since the Nilfgaardian quest for subjugating the whole Continent and capturing Cirilla began, almost two years since he reached Kaer Morhen with Ciri in tow, but Geralt still could not make himself get used to the endearments he received so freely and without asking for from Yennefer and Cirilla, from Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert and Triss. Every time Yen called him "my friend", every time Vesemir called him "son", every time either of them put an arm around him or squeezed his shoulder reassuringly as he sat brooding (and hurting, but he won't admit that), something jolted in his stomach, something warm enveloped him.

And the warmth was tenfold every time a gesture of utter love and trust came from Ciri. Every time Ciri rushed up to him to capture him in a hug, laying her head on his shoulder as if she had not a care in the world as long as her father was there. Every time she fell asleep snuggled against his chest as he read to her (which happened pretty much every night). Every time they sat together pouring over books and scrolls with Geralt giving her lessons in astronomy, bush-lore (the art of traveling through wilderness without losing one's way, knowing which plants were edible and which were poisonous etc.), geography and history, or every time they sat in amicable silence in their balcony, sipping tea. Every time he showed up from a hunt with ugly gashes, and she settled him down on his bed and busied herself with washing the wounds, rubbing ointments, bandaging them.

Every time he woke shivering and sobbing from nightmares to find her slight frame wrapped around him, murmuring "It's okay, Dad. I'm here. We're all here. You're okay. Breathe Dad, breathe."

Nearly two years -- two very long and trying years -- and still the nightmares came. Staggeringly similar in theme, all revolving around a single human.

A certain annoying, loquacious, flippant, way-too-cheerful-for-his-own-good, blue-eyed bard.

_Geralt standing on a rock ledge in the mountains. Jaskier sobbing behind him. Geralt ignores the gasps of pain, despite the way they tug the chords of his heart. Jaskier lets out a wet gurgle, "Geralt, please!". He turns, to see an arrow sticking out of the bard's back, and blood pouring forth from his mouth._

_Geralt sitting in a tavern crowded with people. A rapt audience listening to the bard perform. Men and women alike captivated by the piercing blue of his eyes. Geralt's heart yearns to touch Jaskier, to hold his hand, to make sure he is real. He reaches out from his seat, towards where the bard stands strumming his lute. But before he can touch Jaskier's arm, a faceless, cloaked figure stands from amidst the crowd and extends his hand towards Jaskier. Jaskier takes it. Walks away. The dream dissolves..._

_Geralt trudging alone through a town that looks desolate. His shoulders hunched forward, his heart heavy and aching. He is looking for something, but he can't recall what that is. A voice sounds from somewhere, echoing off the walls of the houses around him, "You can find me no more, Geralt. You left. You left me behind, my beloved. And the tides have since swept me off to where you cannot follow."_

_An impeccably dressed, smiling Jaskier stands in front of Geralt. His shirt sleeves are rolled up a bit, revealing the delicate hands that cradle the lute. Geralt sees a tattoo on the back of his right wrist : the outline of a wolf. Jaskier's voice reaches Geralt as if from very, very far away, "Even if you do find me again, can you really _have_ me again, White Wolf?". Before Geralt can answer, can reach out and pull his bard into his arms, a strange, smoky curtain starts descending between the two, obscuring the dear face of the bard from the Witcher's frantic eyes. "Jask, come back! Please come back! I need you ... I love you ..." A mocking laugh reverberates all around him, as the curtain morphs into a blanket of dense, opaque darkness fully engulfing the bard's form until nothing can be seen except that wolf tattoo on his hand, glowing brighter and brighter and brighter..._

"Geralt? Geralt, come back! Come back to me, my friend", an insistent voice urged him back to reality, and he looked down to find Yennefer's hands shaking him by his arms.

"Where did you wander off to, my friend?"

"I...", Geralt shook his head, then brushed off the single teardrop that had rolled down his cheek. "It's nothing, Yen. I'm here, don't worry. What were you saying, again?"

"I was saying ...", Yennefer paused, frowning at Geralt as if unsure whether to believe he was really alright, "Ciri is in good hands here, Geralt. Cahir and his forces have been defeated, vanquished -- so she is not in any imminent danger. Kaer Morhen is near inaccessible, and there are several Witchers and a couple of, if I may say so myself, tremendously powerful mages here who are watching over your daughter. She is regularly receiving her training, and well on her way to becoming a very accomplished, very able Lioness."

"I think you are getting somewhere with this. But don't trouble yourself on my account, take your sweet time by all means."

Yennefer threw her head back in a sudden, open laugh. Even judging by the way she had opened up to the members of the current Kaer Morhen family, this was unusual, and something that only Geralt and Ciri got to see a glimpse of. Sometimes.

"Sarcasm sure suits you, White Wolf."

"Thanks, Yen."

"No, but on a more serious note, Geralt, Ciri is worried. And _I_ am worried. Very."

Geralt knew Ciri confided in Yen pretty much everything about her Dad. The witch had been claimed by Ciri as her Aunt, and Geralt knew the princess had basically occupied, with no effort whatsoever, the centre of his friend's heart from the very first day.

"What did she say?"

"Your dreams. They are getting worse, are they not?"

The Witcher sighed. Slowly, he began -- he was still learning to speak more than a few syllables at a time. "You remember that time, after the war was over, when we all came home, and there were some merriment and celebrations?"

"Yes?"

"The dreams became less frequent at that time. Previously, they came every night. Around that time, they started coming once every three or four days, then once a week."

"Keep going."

"I was scared, Yen. Like I was losing a part of myself. With the dreams came pain. But pain ... is all I have left ... of him. Memories, pain, and love I shall never be able to confess to him."

"Don't be so sure, Geralt."

"No, Yen, listen. In those dreams, at least I get to see him. I willed myself to see more of those dreams where he is unhurt, healthy, even happy. My subconscious did bend to my will, after a fashion."

"What do you mean?"

"The dreams started coming frequently again. But they changed in nature. From those where I found him wounded and dying", Geralt choked on those last words, but continued after a deep breath, "To where he ... was with someone else. He had ... found someone else."

"Oh, Geralt!"

"It hurts. It hurts like hell, Yen. But in those dreams he is alive again, and smiling, and singing. I can't touch him, can't go near him. If I try, his image disintegrates. Scatters to the wind like the petals of a dandelion. But then, he solidifies again. Throws a mocking smile at me. His arms wrap around his lover, whose face I cannot see. He is pulled into a kiss by this faceless man. And they walk away, leaving me on the floor..."

Geralt could not continue anymore. He stood there, breathing hard and in pain, one hand on the balustrade, one holding on to Yennefer's arm for dear life.

"Geralt", and she could not help the tears spilling from her eyes, "How can you do this to yourself? Oh my friend, what have you done? You are killing yourself, Geralt!"

"I deserve it, Yennefer. After all that I have done to him, I ..."

"No you don't", she cut him off, "In doing this to yourself, don't you see how you are hurting Ciri? Hurting me? Hurting all the people who love you, Geralt? Do _we_ deserve that, best friend?"

The Witcher had no answer to that.

"You deserve happiness and love and peace like everyone else, Geralt. You know it, deep down. You just keep up this shield of 'Oh I don't deserve any happiness because I am a monster' because you are always afraid someone will break your heart. Someone will abandon you. Again. Someone will reject you and leave. Before anyone else can make you feel unwanted, you make sure you _are_ unwanted by them by pushing them away harshly. Do you see?"

It said something about the effect of the past two years on him that he stayed silent, head bowed, taking in every word of admonition from his best friend like an obedient but erring child.

"How is this plan of hiding your vulnerability and baring your teeth and claws to drive away loved ones working out for you, hmm? I can still see Ciri down there", Yennefer gestured towards the child still practicing in the training yard, "And I am right here in front of you, tolerating your monumental stupidity, you oaf. And Triss has not left, nor have your Witcher brothers and father deserted you."

Geralt said nothing. Just gripped Yen's arm harder.

"You know why we don't leave? Why we will _never_ leave? Because we _love_ you, Geralt.", she said, voice impassioned, eyes still tearful, "And do you know what you do when you say you deserve pain and punishment and suffering and never any happiness and peace? You _dishonour _our love for you."__

__Geralt's head whipped up to her face._ _

"You are _not_ a monster, Geralt. You are our family. You are _my_ family. My very best friend. I want you to be happy. Do you have it in you to at least promise your best friend that you will try? To be happy?" 

__Swallowing thickly, the man nodded. His lips wobbled, and he blinked furiously._ _

__"Go find him, Geralt."_ _

__"You know I tried, Yen. You know I looked for him during the war."_ _

__Yen shook her head. "Not good enough", she explained, "That was during the war. He was likely in hiding somewhere, or probably staying somewhere far off from the battle with his family. You were merely taking peeks into taverns and inns while your mind dwelt on how best to protect Cirilla. You have to try harder this time. Focus, Geralt. Focus entirely on Jaskier. Set out on the Path again _just_ for him. Just to bring him home."_ _

__"No side-job hunting down monsters?", Geralt joked, teary-eyed._ _

__"No", said the witch, wrapping up her best friend in a hug and burying her face on his shoulder, from where she mumbled, "You know what some people say? When you want someone with all your mind and heart, with every fibre of your being, the universe conspires to bring you two together."_ _

__"I am relatively certain you just made that up."_ _

__"Whatever. You are setting out tomorrow."_ _

__************************************************************************************************_ _

__

__The tavern in Posada was overflowing. People had slowly started returning to the town, to the homes they had left behind in an attempt to flee the war. And men and women alike were determined to drown out the horrors and distressing memories of those times by gathering around, drinking and eating, chatting and making merry._ _

__At one corner, at a small table, sat a lone man. He was not opposed to company -- not anymore, for the past two years had softened his hard edges to a surprising extent -- but he was a stranger in these parts, and his hooded cloak and hulking posture were not particularly inviting. Once or twice, a drunk villager or an inquisitive barmaid would pause to have a quick word with him -- he was always polite and even offered a small smile, if unwilling to lengthen the conversation too much._ _

__His amber eyes watched a couple of bards prance around to a jig while playing their lutes and singing merrily. Where once he would have frowned at the unnecessary noise in disapproval, a small, but wistful, smile now tugged at his lips._ _

__The door to the tavern opened and in walked a young man. Clean-shaven, with a young and delicate face. Two full, red lips, and bright, cornflower-blue eyes. Chestnut brown hair combed and silk-like, with strands messily yet somehow still elegantly falling upon his forehead. Not too tall, and quite slender. A close-fitting pair of dark blue trousers and a snug, full-sleeved, white wool shirt covered his torso._ _

__Geralt's heart gave an involuntary lurch. He almost dropped the mug of ale he was holding up to his lips._ _

__The man's face was not at all familiar. His enhanced and far more capable Witcher mind had not a shred of doubt that he had never met this man before. And yet..._ _

__And yet there was such an inexplicable familiarity to everything about him -- from the way he walked up to the barman to how his mouth quirked up in a smile at some joke the barman cracked. From the way he was right now listening to the barman speaking with those red lips slightly parted, to the posture in which he sat on the chair, the way his elbow rested on the bar's counter, the way his sprightly eyes flicked up as a passing barmaid fondly greeted him, to how those same eyes roved around the occupants of the tavern..._ _

__To land on Geralt._ _

__Golden irises and cornflower-blue ones held each other in a gaze that was riveting, magnetic -- neither man could break off the contact for what seemed like an eternity, helplessly caught in a connection that made something flutter in both their stomachs._ _

__A helplessness that was somehow oh-so-pleasant!_ _

__The younger man stood from the chair and made his way towards the Witcher, his feet light and quick, his face lit up in a (was it a bit nervous?) smile._ _

__"Hello!", said a lovely, tenor voice, with a shy tone, "You seem new here."_ _

Nope. The voice was also unfamiliar. Geralt had never heard it before. _Why was his stupid heart racing?_

__"I am. Are you a regular here?"_ _

__"Not at all. I am just passing through, staying in Posada for just a few days. I have been coming here every evening since I reached here."_ _

__"I see."_ _

__"May I join you?"_ _

__"O-of course. Please...", Geralt wasn't sure why that last word almost came out like he was imploring._ _

__"Thank you!"_ _

__The man settled in the chair facing Geralt, and set his mug down on the table. He fidgeted a bit with his hands, clearly a little shy and unsure. His blue eyes occasionally looked up to Geralt from underneath long lashes._ _

__"I am Frederick. Frederick Alanger. A teacher, at Oxenfurt. And an avid traveler", he offered._ _

__"Hello, Frederick. I am Geralt". Without thinking, the Witcher offered his hand to the stranger._ _

__And as Frederick took the proffered hand, his shirt sleeve shifted upward, revealing on his right wrist..._ _

__The tattoo of a white wolf._ _

__Geralt gasped, and the younger man jumped._ _

__"Sorry! What happened? Are you okay?"_ _

__The Witcher spluttered involuntarily, drops of ale landing on the table and the floor, and on Geralt's and Frederick's shirts._ _

__"Sorry. Down the wrong pipe", he coughed; then, with an apologetic look at Frederick's now somewhat stained shirt, "Sorry."_ _

__"Not at all", said the younger man, smiling good-naturedly, "You are okay? Do you need me to thump you on your back?"_ _

__"N-no. I'm fine."_ _

__"Let's order new drinks. And some dinner?"_ _

__"Thank you. Yes."_ _

__Frederick insisted on paying. Said he was happy he had found someone new in this place -- someone whose attire clearly bore witness to the many experiences of traveling he had had._ _

__"You're a Witcher?", he asked, gesturing at Geralt's gold eyes and unusually white hair._ _

__There was no fear, no suspicion, no trace of the slightest repugnance in his voice. Just curiosity and a touch of awe._ _

__"Yes."_ _

__"Are you here for some professional reason?"_ _

__"Not at all", the Witcher smiled, for some reason indulgently, "I ... am just traveling. I visited this place many years back. It ... has some memories dear to me."_ _

__"Sweet. I could not venture out much during the war. But now I am determined to make up for it."_ _

__"What do you teach at Oxenfurt?"_ _

__"Oh, liberal arts. Mostly creative writing and penning lyrics for songs, especially ballads. History and mythology too."_ _

__"You compose songs?"_ _

"A bit", came the answer, with a shy smile and a little blush that had Geralt's heart melting. _Why was he melting?_

__"Do you also sing them?"_ _

__"He he he ... yes, occasionally. But I wish I could play something. Like a lute."_ _

__"You don't play any instrument?"_ _

__"No", Frederick hesitated, "Actually, I think I used to ... play something."_ _

"You _think_?" 

__"Yeah. It's a bit strange, and hard to explain. I was in an accident. I fell during a hiking expedition. My head was injured when it hit a rock. My memories have been addled ever since."_ _

__For some reason, it seemed to Geralt that all the air had left the room. He held his breath and waited, his mutant heart hammering in his rib-cage._ _

__"It's all very foggy now. I can't remember much, and it gives me a bad headache when I try to focus on them, try to recall. Like straining my eyes to fully make out the outline of something very far away."_ _

__"This accident ... when did this happen?"_ _

__"About two years back."_ _

__The meal they had ordered arrived, with refills of their mugs. For a moment, their hands and mouths were occupied with eating and drinking, but their minds stayed rather oblivious of these activities._ _

__After a moment, clearing his throat, Frederick said, "It's, um, funny, but uh, you for some reason seem familiar. Like, not your face. No, not that at all. But like ... like we were acquainted before", he smiled, clearly embarrassed at his own babbling, "I wish I could explain better. But there's, you know, no logic behind this. It's ... it's just ..."_ _

__"A feeling. Intuition."_ _

"Yes!", the young professor almost bounced in his seat as if he had discovered a word that is just right, "Do you think you and I have ever met before? May be before I ... lost my memories? May be _you_ recognize me?" 

__Geralt gripped his fork a bit too hard -- his hand shook. He was not sure why his body was being subjected to surge after surge of a strange concoction of emotions._ _

__He knew tales of people who had never met before, yet at the very first glance they found a deep connection of their hearts. But he had never quite believed such tales. Yet here he was, his heart hopelessly latched on to this utter stranger, drinking in every single word that left those plump red lips._ _

He inwardly cursed himself. A frenzied voice nearly shrieked at the back of his mind, "No, no! Jaskier! Jaskier is your true love. Jaskier is the owner of your heart. Your heart _belongs_ to him! You can't just give it away to a stranger." 

__"Fight it! Fight it, now! You belong with Jaskier. You are his, and no one else's. Whether in this lifetime you find him again or not, don't you dare let anyone else enter your heart. Don't you dare!"_ _

__Geralt stood up so suddenly, the chair toppled backward. His whole body was trembling violently like a leaf in the wind, and he panted like he had run a mile._ _

__"Geralt!", Frederick gasped, rising hastily from his own seat and rushing over to Geralt's side, and placing a hand tentatively on the big, burly man's arm, "Geralt, you alright? What did I say? Oh god, did I say something terrible?"_ _

__With a stupendous effort, Geralt calmed himself. This stranger did not deserve any wrath, any reprimand for the effect he was having on Geralt that he did not even seem to be aware of. Geralt politely smiled at Frederick._ _

__"Forgive me. I feel a bit unwell. I think I ought to retire for the night."_ _

__"Y-yes ... yes of course. Will you be boarding at the inn?"_ _

__Geralt nodded._ _

__After a moment of hesitation, the younger man asked, in a soft voice, "Wou--would you mind if I walked you to the inn? I shall totally understand if you wish to be left alone", he added quickly._ _

Geralt's eyes were unwittingly drawn to Frederick's face. It was crumpled in an expression that bespoke worry for Geralt's well-being, cautious hope for an affirmative answer, and ... fear of ... rejection? Geralt's heart melted. _Again_. 

__"It ... would be nice to ... not walk alone to the inn."_ _

__"Thank you!", the answer came with such relief and joy that Geralt almost staggered back with the way it slammed into his poor heart._ _

__A few minutes later, the Witcher and the professor walked up a narrow path to where Roach stood tethered._ _

__The mare took one look at Frederick and nearly launched herself at him, nickering like she was absolutely elated, butting his chest repeatedly with her head._ _

__"Roach!", warned Geralt, "Stop! You'll hurt him."_ _

__In his mind, though, all that the Witcher could think of was, "Why? Why do you behave like you have known him, loved him, and missed him, Roach? I have seen you take to strangers. You took to Ciri almost immediately. But this! This is different -- this is you welcoming back a very old, very dear friend..."_ _

__Frederick was laughing, though, the tension from Geralt's reaction inside the tavern momentarily forgotten. "Oh it tickles!", he chortled, "Oh your mane tickles! Awww you are such a sweetheart, aren't you, my dear -- is it a girl or a boy?"_ _

__"A girl. Roach."_ _

__"Roach", the younger man finished fondly, tousling the mare's beautiful, long mane._ _

__Once Roach had been bridled, the two men started walking towards the village inn in companionable silence, the mare in tow occasionally still expressing her pleasure at having met Frederick._ _

__"She likes me", he grinned in child-like wonder._ _

__"She does."_ _

__"I don't remember whether I was close friends with any horse, from before. But I love her. She is absolutely delightful."_ _

__"Hmm."_ _

__Silence fell upon the two. After a moment, Geralt suddenly remembered something and asked, "I saw that tattoo on your right wrist."_ _

__"Hm? Oh yeah! Do you like it?"_ _

__"Yes. I -- I think I do. Are you fond of wolves?"_ _

__"Very. Again, can't remember how far it goes back. But somehow, I feel so fascinated and, if you can believe it, enraptured when I see depictions of wolves in the books and tomes in the library of my college. There are so many tales, you know, where wolves rose up to fight evil alongside humans. Mighty, formidable, valiant, noble, beautiful and terrifying at the same time."_ _

__"Why white, though?"_ _

__"I'm sorry?"_ _

__"Your tattoo ... it's a white wolf. Why did you choose white?"_ _

__"Oh ha ha! White's my favourite colour. That, and gold. Like, you know, the colour of fire. Not sure if these were my favourite when I was young, but now they are."_ _

Geralt willed himself to breathe in and out, in and out, in and out. _Stop reading between the lines, you fool!_

__"Do you ... do you remember anything at all from your previous life?"_ _

__"Very little. Snippets. Fleeting, very foggy. Just a handful of pictures that are, um, as if seen through a gauzy veil, or a murky, distorted glass."_ _

__"Your parents? Family?"_ _

__"Nothing. I remember vaguely being hugged by someone when I was little, sitting on someone's lap, someone rocking me to sleep in their arms. Very nondescript, you know."_ _

__"Hmm."_ _

__"I do remember something else. Something that is slightly more ... specific. It's, um..."_ _

__Geralt noted, with a bit of surprise, that Frederick was blushing._ _

__"What is it, Frederick?"_ _

__"Well, I am not really sure who the person was, in that piece of memory. Or what he meant to me. I can't remember his face, either. Just a silhouette. Someone sitting in front of a fire, his back turned to me, the flames hidden from my view. I can't tell if he had long hair, or if a hood was covering his head. That's all. Nothing else."_ _

__"In the memory ... does he speak?"_ _

__"No. Not at all."_ _

__"Hmm."_ _

__They had reached the inn. Stabling Roach, they walked up to the innkeeper for Geralt to rent a room._ _

__"I am on the ground floor. Third room to the left of the corridor. Um, may be I shall see you at breakfast?", said Frederick, a hopeful gaze in his eyes._ _

__"Yes. Thank you for the walk, Frederick. G-good night."_ _

__"Uh, g-good night. Uh, it was ... it felt so nice to be able to talk to you. Thank you for listening, Geralt!"_ _

They parted ways at the base of the stairs. As he climbed the stairs up to his room on the first floor, Geralt felt ... light. It was not ... not really happiness. But it was as if ... as if he had been carrying a crushing weight all this time, and now, someone had promised him it would be lifted. It had not _yet_ been lifted. But soon... 

__***************************************************************************************_ _

__Frederick bolted upright in his bed. Someone was knocking on the door, a bit loudly and insistently. Probably because they had been knocking for a while and he had slept through it._ _

__It was dark. Very. Clearly not much past midnight, if that._ _

__Who the heck would come knocking on his door at this ungodly hour?_ _

__"Yeah, uh, comiiing...", he called, groggily getting off the bed and shuffling towards the door in unsteady feet._ _

__"Ow! Ow! Shit!", he yelped, his knee having collided with a leg of the rickety table._ _

__"Frederick?", called a deep voice from the other side of the door, "Are you alright?"_ _

__His stomach did a back-flip. He knew that voice. Had felt it leave pleasant tinglings in his stomach the evening before._ _

__"Uh, yeah ... yeah, I'm fine. Hold on, Geralt."_ _

__Limping a bit, he unlatched and opened the door._ _

__"Hi!"_ _

__"H-hi! Sorry, I ... uh ... I could not sleep. I didn't know what to ... I just ... um ..."_ _

__The hulking man stood there, nervously wringing his hands, eyes downcast, looking utterly lost._ _

__Like a puppy._ _

__Frederick had to wrest himself free of a violent urge to scoop up this stranger in his arms and rock him and comfort him and smooth away those lines of worry and discomfort on that dear face and ..._ _

__"Focus! Focus, damn it!", his mind urged itself. He smiled reassuringly and said, "Oh it's no bother. Do come in."_ _

__The man glanced up, an odd look of beseeching in those brilliant golden eyes. Frederick's favourite colour, other than white._ _

__"Do you ... would you mind going for a walk?"_ _

__"Now?"_ _

__"Yes ... I mean ... n-no ... stupid of me ... it's very late ... sorry ... I should probably ... um, go back..."_ _

__"Wait a moment."_ _

__The professor turned around and grabbed his coat from where it was folded on the back of the chair. He picked up his boots and started tying them on. Then he stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him._ _

__"Lead on."_ _

__There were no clouds in the sky. The Milky Way stretched over the entire expanse of the dark canopy, glittering as if strewn with diamonds. A lovely, if a little cool, breeze blew. Frederick was thankful for having brought his coat along. Geralt, on the other hand, seemed utterly unfazed by the weather. Frederick could feel the heat that came off the Witcher's exceptionally warm body._ _

__"Tell me what you are thinking."_ _

__A small pause. A heartbeat later, Geralt spoke._ _

__"Old memories. Good times. When I ... used to be whole."_ _

__Frederick shot his companion a strange look. "And now you are not?"_ _

__"Part of me is gone. Broken off."_ _

__"Is that what you have set out to find?"_ _

__"Y-yes."_ _

__Silence. Again, it was broken by the professor._ _

__"You mentioned that Posada holds some memories that are dear to you. Are these ... related to what you seek?"_ _

__"Yes."_ _

__"Will you tell me more? Only if you wish to."_ _

__"I ... I wish to. I met someone here. At the very tavern where I met you today."_ _

__Frederick smiled encouragingly at Geralt._ _

__"He ... he was a bard. Very talented. He and I became travel companions."_ _

__"I am assuming he was a very dear friend?"_ _

__"Yes. We ... became friends ... then ... something more."_ _

__"Ah!"_ _

__Geralt looked at Frederick. The younger man was not smiling now. He was positively ... beaming?! What was he so damn happy about?_ _

__"What?"_ _

__"Nothing. It's just ... my heart suddenly feels so full", said Frederick, "It's like ... it's swelled, or something", he said, nonsensically._ _

__Geralt just wore a look of puzzlement._ _

__"Oh, don't mind me. Please, do go on."_ _

__"He and I shared many adventures. He composed songs about those expeditions."_ _

__"I envy your bard, Geralt."_ _

__"Thanks, Frederick. I was lucky to have him in my life. He was ... like the sun. The sun to my darkness, the ... uh ... the..."_ _

__"The calm to your tempests? The serenity to your rage? The warmth of fire to the bitter cold of your ice?"_ _

__"Yes, professor. I wish I had half your skill with words. Jaskier would have admired your diction."_ _

__"Is that his name? Jaskier?"_ _

__"Yes."_ _

Frederick stayed silent, a tiny frown puckering his brow now. It was _his_ turn to "hmm", after a while. 

__"Let's sit on the grass here? My knee hurts a bit."_ _

__"Oh! Can I take a look?"_ _

__"It's nothing, Geralt. No need to bother you, dear Witcher."_ _

__"You are not bothering me, Frederick."_ _

__The two stared at each other for a few moments, each pair of eyes locked on to the other. Then, as if rousing themselves with difficulty from the reverie, they sat down._ _

__"Which leg?"_ _

__"Hmm?"_ _

__"The one that hurts?"_ _

__"Oh! The right one. Here."_ _

__Geralt slowly, tentatively, touched the hem of Frederick's trouser-leg. Slowly, gently, he started rolling it up until the knee was revealed. It was a little swollen, and a light shade of purplish-blue._ _

__"Sheesh, does that look ugly...", Frederick attempted to laugh it off._ _

__Geralt reached into his trouser pocket and brought out a small phial containing some white paste-like substance. "I get injured a lot. Occupational hazard. We Witchers have been taught to carry some basic medications around on our person all the time."_ _

__Unstoppering the cork of the phial, he scooped some of the salve on to his fingers and, with a quick glance up at Frederick, as if making sure he won't object, he lowered his eyes to the bruise and started rubbing the salve on it._ _

__Frederick stared at Geralt. At the way his eyes were trained on Frederick's hurting knee like nothing else existed for him. The way his calloused fingers moved deftly, and yet gentle and tender as the softest feather, over the swelling. The way he pressed his firm yet soft, neither-too-full-nor-too-thin lips together as he concentrated._ _

__Frederick just could not tear his eyes away from the face of this stranger. Or was he? Was he a stranger? Was he a long-lost, long-sundered friend? What was that strange feeling of longing he felt when Geralt uttered the name "Jaskier"? Why did that fierce yet kind face seem so dear to Frederick? Why was he struggling to stop himself from taking that face in his hands, touching their foreheads together, claiming those lips in his own..._ _

__"Jaskier took care of me every day, after I came back from the hunt", Geralt rumbled, his eyes still on Frederick's knee, hands still smearing the salve around the bruise, "I came back with bleeding scars, and he patched me up. I came back with Selkiemore guts and filthy, stinking mud covering me from head to toe, and he stripped me of my armour and clothes with his own hands, never once complaining, then bathed me with soap, washed my hair with soap, toweled me dry."_ _

__He was done tending to the bruise. He now sat back up, his knees drawn to his chest, arms around them, eyes hovering close to the ground, not meeting Frederick's._ _

__The professor hung on to every word of the Witcher as if for dear life, nearly unable to blink, mouth hanging slightly open._ _

__"We were trapped inside a ruined shrine once, surrounded by a pack of Alghouls. I told him, 'Jaskier, I can distract them. You can flee.' You know what he said? 'Geralt, leaving you behind is never an option.'"_ _

__"What happened?", whispered Frederick._ _

"I slew most of the monsters. A couple fled. Jaskier was injured. He had the flesh of his back rendered into shreds by the Alghouls' claws, but thankfully not infected. Blood gushed from the wounds like rivulets. But the fool insisted that the village healer patch _my_ wounds up first, before she tended to him." 

__Geralt let out a mirthless laugh, and Frederick winced from the pain that twisted the Witcher's features._ _

__"Once, we were pursuing a couple of Barghests. The beasts turned around to attack us when they were cornered. I was fighting one of them, when the other crept up on me from behind. Jaskier threw himself between the monster and me. If I hadn't turned around at the nick of time to push him aside and plunge my sword into the beast, he would've..."_ _

__Geralt trailed off, blinking into the night._ _

__"But if he had not put himself in harm's way, I would be dead."_ _

__"Oh, Geralt..."_ _

__"Every time we camped close to a village, Jaskier insisted on getting spices and condiments from there. Even if it meant walking a couple of miles each way during the day. Just so he could spice up the rabbit-meat stew. Just so he could present his Witcher with something more palatable."_ _

__Frederick swallowed. "It seems he loved you very much, Geralt."_ _

__In the starlight, he could see the single tear-track on Geralt's cheek. The man stared off into the distance with a look so broken, so distraught, so utterly consumed in crippling pain that Frederick just could not help himself anymore._ _

__Scooting forward, he took Geralt's hands, that lay dangling upon his knees, in his own, clasping them tightly._ _

__Geralt looked at their joined hands with that same distant stare, as if lost in some deep thought._ _

__"Do you know what I did to him, Frederick?"_ _

__The professor waited, almost afraid to draw breath._ _

__"I told him that the single greatest blessing life could bestow upon me would be to remove him from my life."_ _

__Frederick gasped, the words almost hitting him like a physical blow._ _

__"I told him that I fervently hoped my life would be cleansed of his undesirable, unwanted, unloved presence."_ _

__"Oh god", Frederick breathed, eyes squeezed shut in pain._ _

__"Jaskier ... my Jaskier ... my sweet, beautiful, kind, adoring, happy, loyal, beloved Jaskier..."_ _

__"Geralt..."_ _

__For some time, they just sat there, continuing to hold hands -- Geralt looking lost and utterly defeated, Frederick with a lump in his throat, his thumbs rubbing circles on the back of Geralt's hands._ _

__"You know", the Witcher spoke up, after a time, still not looking at anything in particular, still with unfocused eyes that seemed to be transfixed on something too far away, beyond anyone's reach. "Jaskier found me fishing, one day. Well, he thought I was fishing. And he began babbling the names of all the fishes he knew. Couldn't count past five", Geralt chuckled, his smile laced with wistful longing and fondness._ _

"What _were_ you doing?" 

__"I was looking for a djinn. It was hidden in the waters of that lake."_ _

__"A djinn? Like, a genie? The floaty fellows with the bad tempers and the banned magic?"_ _

__"Ye--"_ _

__Geralt's head whipped up to Frederick's face, all traces of the unfocused, distant gaze gone from his eyes. His golden eyes zeroed in with almost fiery intensity on Frederick's blue ones._ _

__"I didn't know they were real", said Frederick, before faltering under the searing gaze the Witcher was directing at him, "Are you alright?"_ _

__There was no spark of recognition in the professor's eyes. Nothing but concern for Geralt -- the concern of a kind man towards a stranger. That was all._ _

__Geralt sighed. "They are real alright. I even caught that one."_ _

__"Did it grant you wishes?"_ _

__"Yeah."_ _

__A pause._ _

__"Sometimes, though, Frederick, we end up asking for what we want, instead of what we need. We just don't realize it at that time."_ _

__It was the professor's turn to sigh. Wasn't mankind's history strewn with examples of just that?_ _

__"If I could capture a djinn again, Frederick, and if I could ask for a single wish, I would wish for Jaskier's happiness."_ _

__"What?!"_ _

__"I would wish Jaskier be always happy, wherever he is."_ _

__"You won't ask to be able to find him? To be able to have him again? For you two to have a happily ever after?"_ _

__"No."_ _

__"Why?"_ _

__"I don't know if Jaskier will ever forgive me, let alone love me again. I don't know if I even deserve his love. I once took away the freedom to love from a friend of mine. I won't do that to him. Ever."_ _

__Geralt didn't notice how Frederick's eyes widened, how a very subtle, barely perceptible quivering began in his whole frame._ _

__"I would wish for him to be happy with whomever he chooses to give his heart to. I would wish for him to laugh in a carefree manner, go visit all the places he wants to see. And I would wish that he writes many, many, many songs..."_ _

__"Hopefully they won't sound like filling-less pie this time", said Frederick, without missing a beat._ _

__For a moment, there was utter, pin-drop silence. Even the nightly sounds seemed to have abruptly become hushed._ _

__Then Frederick doubled over, holding his chest, "Oh gosh that hurts!"_ _

__"Jaskier...", Geralt's whisper was a prayer -- a prayer to the heavens that Frederick -- Jaskier -- didn't disappear from before his eyes._ _

__"Oh gosh", the man in front of him said in a strained voice, "The witch did warn me it would hurt when the spell lifts. But oh gosh I didn't realize it would hurt this much", as all the memories rushed back into his conscious mind._ _

__"Jaskier...", Geralt seemed petrified, his limbs locked in place, his eyes unable to blink, staring at the face that had just morphed from Frederick's to Jaskier's._ _

"Geralt, you dolt", Jaskier called from where he now lay curled on the ground, panting slightly, but with a smile of pure, unadulterated, radiant joy spreading over his beautiful face, "Come here. Come here _now_." 

__And that seemed to lift the immobilization off Geralt. Throwing himself to the ground, he pulled the bard into his chest with such force, Jaskier let out a soft "Ooomph!"_ _

__"Jaskier!", the Witcher's large hands rubbed Jaskier's back as if trying to touch every inch of skin, and the caress, that was somehow both soft and assertive, woke fire in the bard's veins._ _

__Oh, how he wished he could magically make that fabric between Geralt's calloused palms and his own, heated skin disappear!_ _

__Summoning up courage, he placed a soft, sensuous kiss in the crook of Geralt's neck._ _

__Geralt sighed at the touch of his lips, then pulled out a bit from the embrace to look the bard in the eye. Jaskier looked up at his Witcher with head slightly tilted up, mouth slightly parted, drowning in the molten fire of those golden eyes -- the very picture of loveliness._ _

__And just like that, Geralt's lips snatched up Jaskier's in a kiss that had both men moaning into each other's mouths._ _

__The passionate kisses were repeated many times, yet they never seemed enough. The lovers were breathing hard now, yet they continued to steal soft kisses from each other._ _

__"Jaskier", Geralt murmured, "You're back! Oh, you're back!"_ _

__"I am, love", the bard smiled, and placed a reassuring palm on Geralt's chest._ _

__"Forgive me. Please forgive me."_ _

__"I already have, my friend. But you won't find any peace, Geralt, if you do not forgive yourself..."_ _

__"Jaskier, I don't ..."_ _

"Yes, you do. You do deserve it. Don't do this to us, Geralt. If we are to move on, to move forward _together_ , hand in hand, side by side, then you need to let this go. Let go of the guilt. You have carried this burden long enough, my friend. Let it go now. Allow yourself peace and lightness of the heart." 

__Geralt touched their foreheads together, his palm on Jaskier's cheek, both drawing deep breaths, simply reveling in each other's presence, in each other's warmth._ _

__After a moment, Jaskier started trailing kisses down Geralt's jaw. Geralt moaned, then raising himself on his elbows, he hovered above Jaskier and started pressing his lips down Jaskier's throat, sending shivers down the bard's whole body._ _

__"Geralt", he said, "Please, make me yours."_ _

__******************************************************************************************_ _

__Come morning, Geralt stirred awake to someone lovingly running their hand through his hair and over his face. He could feel the sheets clinging to him, and his arm draped around the waist of his partner._ _

__"Good morning, gorgeous Witcher!"_ _

Geralt snorted. "Since when do you wake up _before_ me, bard?" 

__"Since I became a professor, and they assigned me classes in the morning", grumbled Jaskier, and Geralt snickered._ _

__"Serves you right. Going ahead and forgetting all about me, and becoming a professor in a college."_ _

__"You are having entirely too much fun, aren't you?"_ _

Without warning, Geralt rolled over, tackling a totally unprepared Jaskier so that he now lay underneath him, struggling in vain to free himself. " _Now_ I am having entirely too much fun", he laughed, then started pressing kisses under Jaskier's chin, on the sensitive spot behind his ear, on his exposed throat. 

__And before Jaskier could protest and say things like "Let me go, you brute", he was lost in Geralt's embrace, Geralt's kisses, Geralt's love..._ _

__When they were finally ready to set out on what was going to be a long, but no longer lonely, journey to Kaer Morhen, Geralt took out a couple of items from his bag and handed them to Jaskier._ _

__The excited bard started unwrapping the paper concealing one of the items._ _

__Out came a small brooch, carved out of stone and enameled with some amber-yellow resin-like substance. Under the clear surface of the hardened resin, Jaskier could descry the dark outline of a wolf engraved into the stone._ _

__"Yennefer worked hard on that one. She sends her regards, and has asked me to tell you, in these precise words, 'Forgive the great hairy lummox and come home with him.'"_ _

__Jaskier gulped, staring at the brooch. "Those were her exact words?"_ _

__"Yes."_ _

__"Okay. I acquiesce to her wish."_ _

__Geralt barked a laugh, then gestured towards the other trinket Jaskier held. "Open that one."_ _

__A moment later, a tiny, delicate, wood-carved lute lay on Jaskier's palm, complete with strings and all._ _

__"Ciri made that."_ _

__Jaskier held his breath. "For me?", he said in a disbelieving whisper._ _

__"For you", Geralt confirmed, "And she sends a message too."_ _

__"What's that?"_ _

__"She hopes her Papa will come home to her with her Dad."_ _

__If there were tears running down the cheeks of both men, neither of them seemed to notice. Or mind._ _

__At last, Jaskier stood and extended his hand to Geralt._ _

__"Let's go home, love. Our daughter awaits."_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I like to try and see the best I can manage in each character. So, whereas I started out (when I first watched the Witcher on Netflix) hating Yennefer, then I tried to understand her better, and in the end, ended up liking her very much. The way I have visualized her is the way she is portrayed here, which might differ from the books. 
> 
> I also wanted to go into as much depth as possible exploring Geralt's relationship with Ciri. And how Ciri, Yennefer and a few others started making Geralt open up, bit by bit, every single day. And this plays a crucial role in his communication with Jaskier too, when he finds Jaskier again.
> 
> Look forward to your comments :-)

**Author's Note:**

> Please review !! That's the best encouragement for an author :-)


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